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TOM SLADE

MOTORCYCLE
DISPATCH-BEARER

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TOM TURNED ON HIS SEARCHLIGHT AND SAW A GERMAA
SOLDIER, HATLESS AND COATLESS.

Frontispiece (Page 8)

TOM SLADE

MOTORCYCLE DISPATCH-
BEARER

BY

PERCY K. FITZHUGH

i

AUTHOR OF

TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT, TOM SLADE

AT TEMPLE CAMP, TOM SLADE

ON THE RIVEPv, TOM SLADE

WITH THE COLORS, ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY

R. EMMETT OWEN

PUBLISHED WITH THE APPROVAL OF

THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS :i NEWYORK

Made to the United States of America

THE NET !

ay

:, LEND
it 1U . L

Copyright, If 18, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PA«E

PREFACE Vli

I. FOR SERVICE AS REQUIRED .... 1

II. AID AND COMFORT TO THE ENEMY . &

III. THE OLD COMPASS 14

IV. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. ... 20
V. GETTING READY 25

VI. OVER THR TOP 36

VII. A SHOT 45

VIII. IN THE WOODS 50

IX. THE MYSTERIOUS FUGITIVE ... 57

X. THE JERSEY SNIPE 62

XI. ON GUARD 68

XII. WHAT'S IN A NAME? 73

XIII. THE FOUNTAINS OF DESTRUCTION . 79

XIV. TOM USES His FIRST BULLET. . . 84
XV. THE GUN PIT ....... 89

XVI. PRISONERS 97

XVII. SHADES OF ARCHIBALD ARCHER 105

vi CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGK

XVIII. THE BIG COUP Ill

XIX. TOM is QUESTIONED . . . . .119

XX. THE MAJOR'S PAPERS 127

XXL THE MIDNIGHT RIDE OF PAUL REVERE 133

XXII. "UNCLE SAM" 140

XXIII. UP A TREE 150

XXIV. "To HIM THAT OVERCOMETH" 156

•

XXV. "WHAT You HAVE TO Do—'5 . . 162

XXVI. A SURPRISE 169

XXVII. SMOKE AND FIRE 175

XXVIII. "MADE IN GERMANY" 184

XXIX. "Now You SEE IT, Now You DON'T" 194

XXX. HE DISAPPEARS . . . 205

PREFACE

IT was good advice that Rudyard Kipling gave
his "young British soldier" in regard to the lat-
ter's rifle :

'She's human as you are — you treat her as sich
And she'll fight for the young British soldier."

Tommy Atkins' rifle was by no means the first
inanimate or dumb thing to prove human and to
deserve human treatment. Animals of all sorts
have been given this quality. Jack London's dog,
in The Call of the Wild, has human interest. So
has the immortal Black Beauty.

But we are not concerned with animals now.
Kipling's ocean liner has human interest — a soul.
I need not tell you that a boat is human. Its
every erratic quality of crankiness, its veritable
heroism under stress, its temperament (if you like
that word) makes it very human indeed. That
is why a man will often let his boat rot rather
than sell it.

Vlll

PREFACE

This is not true of all inanimate things. It de-
pends. I have never heard of a steam roller or
a poison gas bomb being beloved by anybody. I
should not care to associate with a hand grenade.
It is a matter of taste ; I dare say I could learn to
love a British tank, but I could never make
a friend and confidante of a balloon. An aero-
plane might prove a good pal — we shall have to
see.

Davy Crockett actually made a friend and con-
fidante of his famous gun, Betsy. And Betsy is
known in history. It is said that the gun crews
on armed liners have found this human quality in
their guns, and many of these have been given
names — Billy Sunday, Teddy Roosevelt, etc.

I need not tell you that a camp-fire is human
and that trees are human.

The pioneers of old, pressing into the dim wil-
derness, christened their old flintlocks and talked
to them as a man may talk to a man. The woods-
man's axe was "deare and greatly beloved," we
are told.

The hard-pressed Indian warrior knelt in the
forest and besought that life-long comrade, his
bow, not to desert or fail him. King Philip kept
in his quiver a favorite arrow which he never used

PREFACE ix

because it had earned retirement by saving his
own life.

What Paul 'Revere may have said to his horse
in that stirring midnight ride we do not know.
But may we not suppose that he urged his trusty
steed forward with resolute and inspiring words
about the glorious errand they were upon?

Perhaps the lonely ringer of the immortal bell
up in the Old South steeple muttered some urgent
word of incentive to that iron clanger as it beat
against its ringing wall of brass.

So I have made Uncle Sam, the motorcycle, the
friend and companion of Tom Slade. I have with-
held none of their confidences — or trifling differ-
ences. I dare say they were both weary and im-
patient at times.

If he is not companionable to you, then so
much the worse for you and for our story. But
he was the friend, the inseparable associate and
co-patriot of Tom Slade, the Dispatch Rider.

You will not like him any the less because of
the noise he made in trudging up a hill, or be-
cause his mudguard was broken off, or his tire
wounded in the great cause, or his polished head-
light knocked into a tin can. You will not ridi-
cule the old splint of a shingle which was bound

x PREFACE | '

with such surgical nicety among his rusting spokes.
If you do, then you are the kind of a boy who
would laugh at a wounded soldier and you had
better not read this book.

TOM SLADE

MOTORCYCLE DISPATCH-BEARER

CHAPTER I

FOR SERVICE AS REQUIRED

SWIFTLY and silently along the moonlit road
sped the dispatch-rider. Out of the East he had
come, where the battle line runs between blue
mountains and the country is quiet and peaceful,
and the boys in khaki long for action and think
wistfully of Picardy and Flanders. He was a
lucky young fellow, this dispatch-rider, and all
the boys had told him so.

'We'll miss you, Thatchy," they had said.

And 'Thatchy" had answered characteristic-
ally, "I'm sorry, too, kind of, in a way."

His name was not Thatchy, but they had called
him so because his thick shock of light hair,
which persisted in falling down over his forehead

and ears, had not a little the appearance of the

i

2 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

thatched roofs on the French peasant's cottages.
He, with a loquacious young companion, had
blown into the Toul sector from no one seemed
to know exactly where, more than that he had
originally been a ship's boy, had been in a Ger-
man prison camp, and had escaped through Alsace
and reached the American forces after a perilous
journey.

Lately he had been running back and forth on
his motorcycle between the lines and points south
in a region which had not been defiled by the in-
vader, but now he was going far into the West
"for service as required."

That was what the slip of paper from head-
quarters had said, and he did not speculate as to
what those services would be, but he knew that
they would not be exactly holding Sunday-School
picnics in the neighborhood of Montdidier. Billy
Brownway, machine gunner, had assured Thatchy
that undoubtedly he was wanted to represent the
messenger service on th'e War Council at Ver-
sailles. But Thatchy did not mind that kind of
talk.

West of Revigny, he crossed the old trench
line, and came into the area which the Blond
Beast had crossed and devastated in the first year

FOR SERVICE AS REQUIRED 3

of the war. Planks lay across the empty trenches
and as he rode over first the French and then the
enemy ditches, he looked down and could see in
the moonlight some of the ghastly trophies of
war. Somehow they affected him more than had
the fresher results of combat which he had seen
even in the quiet sector he had left.

Silently he sped along the thirty-mile stretch
from Revigny to Chalons, where a little group
of French children pressed about him when he
paused for gasoline.

"Yankee!" they called, chattering at him and
meddling with his machine.

"Le cheveu !" one brazen youngster shouted,
running his hand through his own hair by way of
demonstrating Thatchy's most conspicuous char-
acteristic.

Thatchy poked him good-humoredly. "La
route, est-belle bonne ?" he asked.

The child nodded enthusiastically, while the
others broke out laughing at Thatchy's queer
French, and poured a verbal torrent at him by
way of explaining that the road to the South
would take him through Vertus and Montmirail,
while the one to the north led to Epernay.

Til bump my nose into the salient if I take

"T'l

4 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER v

that one," he said more to himself than to them,
but one little fellow, catching the word salient
took a chance on nose and jumped up and down
in joyous abandon, calling, "Bump le nez — le
salient!" apparently in keen appreciation of the
absurdity of the rider's phrase.

He rode away with a clamoring chorus behind
him and he heard one brazen youngster boldly
mimicking his manner of asking if the roads were
good. These children lived in tumble-down houses
which were all but ruins, and played in shell holes
as if these cruel, ragged gaps in the earth had
been made by the kind Boche for their especial
entertainment.

A mile or two west of Chalons the rider crossed
the historic Marne on a makeshift bridge built
from the materials of a ruined house and the rem-
nants of the former span.

On he sped, along the quiet, moonlit road,
through the little village of Thibie, past many a
quaint old heavily-roofed brick cottage, over the
stream at Chaintrix and into Vertus, and along
the straight, even stretch of road for Montmirail.
Not so long ago he might have gone from Cha-
lons in a bee-line from Montdidier, but the big,
ugly salient stuck out like a huge snout now, as if

FOR SERVICE AS REQUIRED 5

it were sniffing in longing anticipation at that
tempting morsel, Paris; so he must circle around
it and then turn almost straight north.

At La Ferte, among the hills, he paused at a
crossroads and, alighting from his machine, stood
watching as a long, silent procession of wagons
passed by in the quiet night, moving southward.
He knew now what it meant to go into the West.
One after another they passed in deathlike still-
ness, the Red Cross upon the side of each plainly
visible in the moonlight. As he paused, the rider
could hear the thunder of great guns in the north.
Many stretchers, borne by men afoot, followed
the wagons and he could hear the groans of those
who tossed restlessly upon them.

"Look out for shell holes,1' he heard someone
say. So there were Americans in the fighting, he
thought.

He ran along the edge of the hills now on the
fifteen-mile stretch to Meaux, where he intended
to follow the road northward through Senlis and
across the old trenches near Clermont. He could
hear the booming all the while, but it seemed
weary and spent, like a runner who has slackened
his pace and begun to pant.

At Meaux he crossed the path of another silent

6 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

cavalcade of stretchers and ambulances and
wounded soldiers who were being supported as
they limped along. They spoke in French and
one voice came out of an ambulance, seeming
hollow and far off, as though from a grave. Then
came a lot of German prisoners tramping along,
some sullen and some with a fine air of bravado>
sneering at their guards.

The rider knew where he was going and how
to get there and he did not venture any inquiries
either as to his way or what had been going on.

Happenings in Flanders and Picardy are known
in America before they are known to the boys in
Alsace. He knew there was fighting in the West
and that Fritz had poked a big bulge into the
French line, for his superiors had given him a
road map with the bulge pencilled upon it so that
he might go around it and not bump his nose into
it, as he had said. But he had not expected to
see such obvious signs of fighting and it made him
realize that at last he was getting into the war
with a vengeance.

Instead of following the road leading north-
west out of Meaux, he took the one leading
northeast up through Villers-Cotterets, intending
to run along the edge of the forest to Campiegnc

FOR SERVICE AS iREQUIRED 7

and then verge westward to the billet villages
northwest of Montdidier, where he was to re-
port.

This route brought him within ten miles of the
west arm of the salient, but the way was quiet
and there was no sign of the fighting as he rode
along in the woody solitude. It reminded him of
his home far back in America and of the woods
where he and his scout companions had camped
and hiked and followed the peaceful pursuits of
stalking and trailing.

He was thinking of home as he rode leisurely
along the winding forest road, when suddenly he
was startled by a rustling sound among the trees.

'Who goes there?" he demanded in pursuance
of his general instructions for such an emergency,
at the same time drawing his pistol. "Halt!"

He was the scout again now, keen, observant.
But there was no answer to his challenge and he
narrowed his eyes to mere slits, peering into the
tree-studded solitude, waiting.

Then suddenly, close by him he heard that un-
mistakable sound, the clanking of a chain, and
accompanying it a voice saying, "Kameracl."

CHAPTER TWO

AID AND COMFORT TO THE ENEMY

TOM SLADE, dispatch-rider, knew well enough
what kamerad meant. He had learned at least
that much of German warfare and German honor,
even in the quiet Toul sector. He knew that the
German olive branch was poisoned; that German
treachery was a fine art — a part of the German
efficiency. Had not Private Coleburn, whom Tom
knew well, listened to that kindly uttered word
and been stabbed with a Prussian bayonet in the
darkness of No Man's Land?

"Stand up," said Tom. "Nobody can talk to
me crouching down like that.11

"Ach!" said the voice in the unmistakable tone
of pain. "Vot goot — see!"

Tom turned on his searchlight and saw crawl-
ing toward him a German soldier, hatless and
coatless, whose white face seemed all the more
pale and ghastly for the smear of blood upon it.

He was quite without arms, in proof of which he

s

AID TO THE ENEMY 9

raised his open hands and slapped his sides and
hips. As he did so a long piece of heavy chain
which was manacled to his wrist clanged and
rattled.

"Ach!" he said, shaking his head as if in agony.

"Put your hands down. All right/' said Tom.
"Can you speak English?"

"Kamerad," he repeated and shrugged his
shoulders as if that wrere enough.

'You escape?" said Tom, trying to make him-
self understood. "How did you get back of the
French lines?"

"Shot broke — yach," the man said, his face
lapsing again into a hopeless expression of suffer-
ing.

"All right," said Tom, simply. "Comrade — I
say it too. All right?"

The soldier's face showed unmistakable relief
through his suffering.

"Let's see what's the matter," Tom said,
though he knew the other only vaguely under-
stood him. Turning the wheel so as the better to
focus the light upon the man, he saw that he had
been wounded in the foot, which was shoeless and
bleeding freely, but that the chief cause of his
suffering was the raw condition of his wrist where

10 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

the manacle encircled it and the heavy chain
pulled. It seemed to Tom as if this cruel sore
might have been caused by the chain dragging be-
hind him and perhaps catching on the ground as
he fled. '

"The French didn't put that on?" he queried,
rather puzzled.

The soldier shook his head. "Herr General,"
said he.

"Not the Americans?"

"Herr General — gun."

Then suddenly there flashed into Tom's mind
something he had heard about German artillery-
men being chained to their guns. So that was it.
And some French gunner, or an American maybe,
had unconsciously set this poor wretch free by
smashing his chain with a shell.

"You're in the French lines," Tom said. "Did
you mean to come here? You're a prisoner."

"Ach, diss iss petter," the man said, only half
understanding.

"Yes, I guess it is," said Tom. 'Til bind your
foot up and then I'll take that chain off if I can
and bind your wrist. Then we'll have to find the
nearest dressing station. I suppose you got lost
in this forest. I been in the German forest my-

AID TO THE ENEMY 11

self," he added; "it's fine — better than this. I got
to admit they've got fine lakes there."

Whether he said this by way of comforting
the stranger — though he knew the man under-
stood but little of it — or just out of the blunt
honesty which refused to twist everything Ger«
man into a thing of evil, it would be hard to say,
He had about him that quality of candor which
could not be shaken even by righteous enmity.

Tearing two strips from his shirt, he used the
narrower one to make a tourniquet, which he tied
above the man's ankle.

"If you haven't got poison in it, it won't be so
bad," he said. "Now I'll take off that chain."

He raised his machine upon its rest so that the
power wheel was free of the ground. Then, to
the wounded Boche's puzzled surprise, he re-
moved the tire and fumbling in his little tool kit
he took out a piece of emery cloth which he used
for cleaning his plugs and platinum contact points,
and bent it over the edge of the rim, binding it to
the spokes with the length .of insulated wire which
he always carried. It was a crude and make-
shift contrivance at best, but at last he succeeded,
by dint of much bending and winding and tying
of the pliable copper wire among the spokes of

12 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

the wheel, in fastening the emery cloth over the
fairly sharp rim so that it stayed in place when
he started his power and in about two revolutions
it cut a piece of wire with which he tested the
power of his improvised mechanical file.

"Often I sharpened a jackknife that way on
the fly-wheel of a motor boat," he said. The
Boche did not understand him, but he was quick
to see the possibilities of this whirling hacksaw
and he seemed to acknowledge, with as much
grace as a German may, the Yankee ingenuity of
his liberator.

"Give me your wrist," said Tom, reaching for
it; "I won't hurt it any more 'than I have to;
here — here's a good scheme."

He carefully stuffed his handkerchief around
under the metal band which encircled the soldier's
wrist and having thus formed a cushion to re-
ceive the pressure and protect the raw flesh, he
closed his switch again and gently subjected the
manacle to the revolving wheel, holding it upon
the edge of the concave tire bed.

If the emery cloth had extended all the way
around the wheel he could have taken the manacle
off in less time than it had taken Kaiser Bill to
lock it on, for the contrivance rivalled a buz*-

AID TO THE ENEMY . 13

saw. As it was, he had to stop every minute or
two to rearrange the worn emery cloth and bind
it in place anew. But for all that he succeeded in
less than fifteen minutes in working a furrow
almost through the metal band so that a little
careful manipulating and squeezing and pressing
of it enabled him to break it and force it open.

'There you are," he said, removing the hand-
kerchief so as to get a better look at the cruel
sore beneath; "didn't hurt much, did it? That's
what Uncle Sam's trying to do for all the rest of
you fellers — only you haven't got sense enough
to know it."

CHAPTER THREE

THE OLD COMPASS

TOM took the limping Boche, his first war
prisoner, to the Red Cross station at Vivieres
where they had knives and scissors and bandages
and antiseptics, but nothing with which to remove
Prussian manacles, and all the king's horses and
all the king's men and the willing, kindly nurses
there could have done little for the poor Boche
if Tom Slade, alias Thatchy, had not adminis-
tered his own particular kind of first aid.

The French doctors sent him forth with un-
stinted praise which he only half understood, and
as he sped along the road for Compiegne he won-
dered who could have been the allied gunner who
at long range had cut Fritzie loose from the
piece of artillery to which he had been chained.

'That feller and I did a good job anyway,"
he thought.

At Compiegne the whole town was in a fer-
ment as he passed through. Hundreds of refugees
with mule carts and wheelbarrows laden with

14

THE OLD COMPASS 1?

their household goods, were leaving the town in
anticipation of the German advance. They made
a mournful procession as they passed out of the
town along the south road with babies crying and
children clamoring about the clumsy, overladen
vehicles. He saw many boys in khaki here and
there and it cheered and inspired him to know
that his country was represented in the fighting.
He had to pause in the street to let a company of
them pass by on their way northward to the
trench line and it did his heart good to hear their
cheery laughter and typical American banter.

"Got any cigarettes, kiddo?" one called.

i Where you going — north?" asked another.

uTo the billets west of Montdidier," Tom
answered. 'I'm for new service. I came from
Toul sector."

"Good-night! That's Sleepy Hollow over
there."

From Compiegne he followed the road across
the Aronde and up through Mery and Tricot
into Le Cardonnois. The roads were full of
Americans and as he passed a little company of
them he called,

"How far is r" naming the village of his

destination.

16 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"About two miles," one of them answered;
"straight north."

"Tell 'em to give 'em Hell," another called.

This laconic utterance was the first intimation
which Tom had that anything special was brewing
in the neighborhood, and he answered with
characteristic literalness, "All right, I will."

The road northward from Le Cardonnois was
through a hilly country, where there were few
houses. About half a mile farther on he reached
the junction of another road which appeared also
to lead northward, verging slightly in an easterly
direction. He had made so many turns that he
was a little puzzled as to which was the true
north road, so he stopped and took out the trusty
little compass which he always carried, and held
it in the glare of his headlight, thinking to verify
his course. Undoubtedly the westward road was
the one leading to his destination for as he walked
a little way along the other road he found that it
bent still more to the eastward and he believed
that it must reach the French front after another
mile or two.

As he looked again at the cheap, tin-encased
compass he smiled a little ruefully, for it re-
minded him of Archibald Archer, with whom he

THE OLD COMPASS 17

had escaped from the prison camp in Germany
and made his perilous flight through the Black
Forest into Switzerland and to the American
forces near Toul.

Archibald Archer! Where, in all that war-
scourged country, was Archibald Archer now,
Tom wondered. No doubt, chatting familiarly
with generals and field marshals somewhere, in
blithe disregard of dignity and authority; for he
was a brazen youngster and an indefatigable
souvenir hunter.

So vivid were Tom's thoughts of Archer that,
being off his machine, he sat down by the road-
side to eat the rations which his anxiety to reach
his destination had deterred him from eating be-
fore.

"That's just like him," he thought, holding the
compass out so that it caught the subdued rays of
his dimmed headlight; "always marking things
up, or whittling his initials or looking for

souvenirs."

The particular specimen of Archer's handiwork
which opened this train of reminiscence was part
and parcel of the mischievous habit which ap-
parently had begun very early in his career, when
he renovated the habiliments of the heroes and

18 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

statesmen in his school geography by pencilling
high hats and sunbonnets on their honored heads
and giving them flowing moustaches and frock
coats.

In the prison camp from which they had es-
caped he had carved his initials on fence and
shack, but his masterpiece was the conversion of
the N on this same glassless compass into a very
presentable S (though turned sidewrays) and the S
into a very presentable N.

The occasion of his doing this was a singular
experience the two boys had had in their flight
through Germany when, after being carried across
a lake on a floating island while asleep, they had
swum back and retraced their steps northward
supposing that they were still going south.

"Either we're wrong or the compass is wrong,
Slady," the bewildered Archer had said, and he
had forthwith altered the compass points before
they discovered the explanation of their singular
experience.

After reaching the American forces Archer had
gone forth to more adventures and new glories in
the transportation department, the line of his
activities being between Paris and the coast, and
Tom had seen him no more. He had given the

THE OLD COMPASS 19

compass to Tom as a "souvenir," and Tom, whose
sober nature had found much entertainment in
Archer's sprightliness, had cherished it as such.
It was useful sometimes, too, though he had to be
careful always to remember that it was the
"wrong way round."

"He'll turn up like a bad penny some day," he
thought now, smiling a little. "He said he'd bring
me the clock from a Paris cathedral for a
souvenir, and he'd change the twelve to twenty-
two on it."

He remembered that he had asked Archer what
cathedral in Paris, and Archer had answered,
"The Cathedral de la Plaster of Paris."

"He's a sketch," thought Tom.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

"THAT'S the way it is," thought Tom, "you
get to know fellers and like 'em, and then you
get separated and you don't see 'em any more."

Perhaps he was the least bit homesick, coming
into this new sector where all were strangers to
him. In any event, as he sat there finishing his
meal he fell to thinking of the past an* of the
''fellers" he had known. He had known a good
many for despite his soberness there was some-
thing about him which people liked. Most of his
friends had taken delight in jollying him and he
was one of those boys who are always being nick-
named wherever they go. Over in the Toul sector
they 'joshed" and "kidded" him from morning
till night but woe be to you if you had sought to
harm him !

He had been sorry, in a way, to leave the Tonl
sector, just as he had been sorry to leave Bridge-

2Q

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 21

boro when he got his rirst ;cb c- a ship. 'That's

one thin fellers car/: understand." he thought

you can :e s:rry azout a
f-nn (V^1? i-T^a^c--? -^— - _ T"n

LLHJ. V_J.^ .i u^LiwI i — £.-i J. _ ----- ...

for 'em. even though I-

— . -^ m

had much ;se fcr rr.e - "

He fell to thinking •:: the sc:ut trier c: ^riiiih
he had been a merr/rer a~ 17 bid-: in America, of
Mr. Ells— :rth. tie sccutmaster. ~:i: hid lifted
h-m out of the setter, and of Rev Blakelev ^:io

^3 » *

was always fooling, and Peewee Harris. Peewee
must be cu;:e a bov bv new — n:t a tenderf :etlet

L * *

anv more, as Rov had called him.

* »

And then there was Rossie Bent who wcrked
in the bank and who hid r\;n a~ 17 the night :-•
fore Reg:5trat::n Da7« hcping t:- esrire
service. Tcm fell t: thinking :f him and
he had traced him ur t: a irneiv mzun
and made him go back and register ;~_st in tirr.e
:: esiare disgrace and runishment.

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the oirrerence. I ret ne s cne :: tne rra-re-st
soldiers over here now. Funny if I should meet
him. I ai~ays liked him anvwiv. ev;n when

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22 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

right to be. If girls liked me as much as they
did him maybe I'd be conceited. Anyway, I'd
like to see him again, that's one sure thing."

When he had finished his meal he felt of his
tires, gave his grease cup a turn, mounted his
machine and was off to the north for whatever
awaited him there, whether it be death or glory
or just hard work; and to new friends whom, he
would meet and part with, who doubtless would
"josh" him and make fun of his hair and tell him
extravagant yarns and belittle and discredit his
soberly and simply told "adventures," and yet who
would like him nevertheless.

"That's the funny thing about some fellers," he
thought, "you never can tell whether they like you
or not. Rossie used to say girls were hard to un-
derstand, but, gee, I think fellers are harder!"

Swiftly and silently along the moonlit road he
sped, the dispatch-rider who had come from the
blue hills of Alsace across the war-scorched area
into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and
red-running streams of Picardy "for service as
required." Two miles behind the straining line
he rode and parallel with it, straight northward,
keeping his keen, steady eyes fixed upon the road
for shell holes. Over to the east he could hear

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 23

the thundering boom of artillery and once the
air just above him seemed to buzz as if some
mammoth wasp had passed. But he rode steadily,
easily, without a tremor.

When he dismounted in front of headquarters
at the little village of his destination his stolid
face was grimy from his long ride and the dust
of the blue Alsatian mountains mingled with the
dust of devastated France upon his khaki uniform
'(which was proper and fitting) and his rebellious
hair was streaky and matted and sprawled down
over his frowning forehead.

A little group of soldiers gathered about him
after he had given his paper to the commanding
officer, for he had come a long way and they
knew the nature of his present service if he did
not. They watched him rather curiously, for it
was not customary to bring a dispatch-rider from
such a distance when there were others available
in the neighborhood. He was the second sensa-
tion of that memorable night, for scarcely two
hours before General Pershing himself had ar-
rived and he was at that very minute in confer-
ence with other officers in the little red brick cot-
tage. Even as the group of soldiers clustered
about the rider, officers hurried in and out with

24 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

maps, and one young fellow, an aviator appar-
ently, suddenly emerged and hurried away.

" What's going to be doing?" Tom asked, tak-
ing notice of all these activities and speaking in
i his dull way.

Evidently the boys had already taken his
measure and formulated their policy, for one
answered,

"Peace has been declared and they're trying
to decide whether we'd better take Berlin or have
it sent C.O.D."

"A soldier I met a couple of miles back," said
Tom, "told me to tell you to give 'em Hell."

It was characteristic of him that although he
never used profanity he delivered the soldier's
message exactly as it had been given him.

CHAPTER FIVE

GETTING READY

TOM wheeled his machine over to a long brick
cottage which stood flush with the road and at-
tended to it with the same care and affection as a
man might show a favorite horse. Then he sat
down with several others on a long stone bench
and waited.

There was something in the very air which told
him that important matters were impending and
though he believed that they had not expected
him to arrive just at this time he wondered
whether he might not be utilized now that he was
here. So he sat quietly where he was, observant
of everything, but asking no questions.

There was a continuous stream of officers en-
tering and emerging from the headquarters oppo-
site and twice within half an hour companies of
soldiers were brought into formation and passed
silently away along the dark road.

25

26 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

'You'll be in Germany in a couple of hours,"
called a private sitting alongside Tom as some of
them passed.

"Cantigny isn't Germany," another said.

"Sure it is," retorted a third; "all the land
they hold is German soil. Call us up when you
get a chance," he added in a louder tone to the
receding ranks.

"Is Cantigny near here?" Tom asked.

"Just across the ditches."

"Are we going to try to take it?"

1 Try to? We're going to wrap it up and
bring it home."

Tom was going to ask the soldier if he thought
there would be any chance for him, though he
knew well enough that his business was behind
the lines and that the most he could hope for was
to carry the good news (if such it proved to be)'
still farther back, away from the fighting.

'This is going to be the first offensive of your
old Uncle Samuel and if we don't get the whole
front page in the New York papers we'll be
peeved," Tom's neighbor condescended to inform
him.

Whatever Uncle Samuel was up to he was cer-
tainly very busy about it and very quiet. On the

GETTING REAI>Y 27

little village green which the cottage faced groups
of officers talked earnestly.

An enormous spool on wheels, which in the
darkness seemed a mile high, was rolled silently
from somewhere or other, the wheels staked and
bound to the ground, and braces were erected
against it. Very little sound was made and there
were no lights save in the houses, which seemed all
to be swarming with soldiers. Not a civilian was
to be seen. Several soldiers walked away from the
big wheel and it moved around slowly like one of
those gigantic passenger-carrying wheels in an
amusement resort.

Presently some one remarked that Collie was
in and there was a hurrying away — toward the
rear of the village, as it seemed to Tom.

"Who's Collie?" he ventured to ask.

^

"Collie? Oh, he's the Stormy Petrel; he's been
piking around over the Fritzies' heads, I s'pose."

Evidently Collie, or the Stormy Petrel, was an
aviator who had alighted somewhere about the
village with some sort of a report.

"Collie can't see in the daylight," his neighbor
added; "he and the Jersey Snipe have got Fritzie
vexed. You going to run between here and the
coast?"

28 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"I don't know what I'm going to do," said
Tom. "I don't suppose I'll go over the top. I'd
like to go to Cantigny."

"Never mind, they'll bring it back to you. Did
you know the old gent is here?"

"Pershing?"

"Yup. Going to run the show himself."

"Are you going?"

"Not as far as I know. I was in the orchestra
— front row — last week. Got a touch of trench
fever."

"D'you mean the front line trenches?" Tom
asked.

"Yup. Oh, look at Bricky!" he added sud-
denly. 'You carrying wire, Bricky? There's a
target for a sniper for you — hair as red as "

"Just stick around at the other end of it," in-
terrupted "Bricky" as he passed, "and listen to
what you hear."

"Here come the tanks," said Tom's neighbor,
"and there's the Jersey Snipe perched on the one
over at the other end. Good-night, Fritzie!"

The whole scene reminded Tom vaguely of the
hasty, quiet picking up and departure of the
circus in the night which, as a little boy, he had
sat up to watch. There were the tanks, half a

GETTING READY 29

dozen of them (and he knew there were more
elsewhere), covered with soldiers and waiting in
the darkness like elephants. Troops were con-
stantly departing, for the front trenches he sup-
posed.

Though he had never yet been before the lines,
his experience as a rider and his close touch with
the fighting men had given him a pretty good
military sense in the matter of geography — that
is, he understood now without being told the
geographical relation of one place to another in
the immediate neighborhood. Dispatch-riders ac-
quire this sort of extra sense very quickly and they
come to have a knowledge of the lay of the land
infinitely more accurate than that of the average
.private soldier.

Tom knew that this village, which was now the
scene of hurried preparation and mysterious com-
ings and goings, was directly behind the trench
area. He knew that somewhere back of the
village was the artillery, and he believed that the
village of Cantigny stood in the same relation to
the German trenches that this billet village stood
to the Allied trenches ; that is, that it was just be-
hind the German lines and that the German
artillery was still farther back. He had heard

30 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

enough talk about trench warfare to know how
the Americans intended to conduct this operation.

But he had never seen an offensive in prepara-
tion, either large or small, for there had been no
American offensives — only raids, and of course he
had not participated in these. It seemed to him that
now, at last, he was drawn to the very threshold
of active warfare only to be compelled to sit silent
and gaze upon a scene every detail of which
aroused his longing for action. The hurried con-
sultation of officers, the rapid falling in line in the
darkness, the clear brisk words of command, the
quick mechanical response, the departure of one
group after another, the thought of that aviator
alighting behind the village, the sight of the
great, ugly tanks and the big spool aroused his
patriotism and his craving for adventure as
nothing else had in all the months of his
service. He was nearer to the trenches than ever
before.

"If you're riding to Clermont," he heard a
soldier say, apparently to him, "you'd better take
the south road; turn out when you get to Airian.
The other's full of shell holes from the old
trench line."

"Best way is to go down through Estrees and

GETTING READY 31

follow the road back across the old trench line,"
said another.

Tom listened absently. He knew he could find
the best way, that was his business, but he did not
jwant to go to Clermont. It seemed to him that
he was always going away from the war while
others were going toward it. While these boys
were rushing forward he would be rushing back-
Ward. That was always the way.

'There's a lot of skeletons in those old
trenches. You can follow the ditches almost down
to Paris."

"They won't send him farther than Creil,"
another said. 'The wires are up all the way from
Creil down."

"You never can tell whether they'll stay up or
not — not with this seventy-five mile bean-shooter
Fritzie's playing with. Ever been to Paris, kid?"

"No, but I s'pose I'll be sent there now —
maybe," Tom answered.

'They'll keep you moving up this way, all
right. You were picked for this sector — d'you
know that?"

"I don't know why."

"Don't get rattled easy — that's what I heard."

This was gratifying if it was true. Tom had

32 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

not known why he had been sent so far and he
had wondered.

Presently a Signal Corps captain came out of
Headquarters, spoke briefly with two officers who
were near the big wire spool, and then turned
toward the bench on which Tom was sitting. His
neighbors arose and saluted and he did the same.

"Never been under fire, I suppose?" said the
captain, addressing Tom to his great surprise.

"Not before the lines, I haven't. The machine
I had before this one was knocked all out of
shape by a shell. I was riding from Toul to "

"All right," interrupted the captain somewhat
impatiently. Tom was used to being interrupted
in the midst of his sometimes rambling answers.
He could never learn the good military rule of
being brief and explicit. "How do you feel about
going over the top? You don't have to."

"It's just what I was thinking about," said
Tom eagerly. 'If you'd be willing, I'd like to."

"Of course you'd be under fire. Care to volun-
teer? Emergency work."

"Often I wished "

"Care to volunteer?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"All right; go inside and get some sleep.

GETTING READY 33

They'll wake you up in about an hour. Machine
in good shape?"

This was nothing less than an insult. UI always
keep it in good shape/' said Tom. 'I got

extra "

"All right. Go in and get some sleep; you
haven't got long. The wire boys will take care of
you."

He strode away and began to talk hurriedly
with another man who showed him some papers
and Tom watched him as one in a trance.

"Now you're in for it, kiddo," he heard some
one say.

"R. I. P. for yours," volunteered another.

Tom knew well enough what R. I. P. meant.
Often in his lonely night rides through the towns
close to the fighting he had seen it on row after
row of rough, carved wooden crosses.

'There won't be much resting in peace to-night.
How about it, Toul sector?"

"I didn't feel very sleepy, anyway," said Tom.

He slept upon one of the makeshift straw
bunks on the stone floor of the cellar under the
cottage. With the first streak of dawn he arose
and went quietly out and sat on a powder keg
under a small window, tore several pages out of

34 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

his pocket blank-book and using his knee for a
desk, wrote:

"DEAR MARGARET:

"Maybe you'll be surprised, kind of, to
get a letter from me. And maybe you won't
like me calling you Margaret. I told Roy to
show you my letters, cause I knew he'd be
going into Temple Camp office on account of
the troop getting ready to go to Camp and
I knew he'd see you. I'd like to be going up
to camp with them, and I'd kind of like to
be back in the office, too. I remember how
I used to be scared of you and you said you
must be worse than the Germans 'cause I
wasn't afraid of them. I hope you're work-
ing there yet and I'd like to see Mr. Burton,
too.

"I was going to write to Roy but I decided
I'd send a letter to you because whenever
something is going to happen the fellows
write letters home and leave them to be
mailed in case they don't get back. So if you
get this you'll know I'm killed. Most of
them write to girls or their mothers, and as
long as I haven't got any mother I thought
I'd write to you. Because maybe you'd like
to hear I'm killed more than anybody. I
mean maybe you'd be more interested.

"I'm going to go over the top with this
regfment. I got sent way over to this sector
for special service. A fellow told me he

GETTING READY 35

heard it was because I got a level head. I
can't tell you where I am, but this morning
we're going to take a town. I didn't have to
go, 'cause I'm a non-com., but I volunteered.
I don't know what I'll have to do.

"I ain't exactly scared, but it kind of makes
me think about home and all like that. I
often wished I'd meet Roscoe Bent over here.
Maybe he wrote to you. I bet everybody
likes him wherever he is over here. It's
funny how I got to thinking about you last
night. I'll — there goes the bugle, so I can't
write any more. Anyway, you won't get it
unless I'm killed. Maybe you won't like my
writing, but every fellow writes to a girl the
last thing. It seems kind of lonely if you
can't write to a girl.

"Your friend,

"ToM SLADE."

CHAPTER SIX

OVER THE TOP

THE first haze of dawn was not dispelled when
the artillery began to thunder and Tom knew
that the big job was on. Stolid as he was and
used to the roar of the great guns, he made hasty
work of his breakfast for he was nervous and
anxious ro be on the move.

Most of the troops that were to go seemed to
have gone already. He joined the two signal
corps men, one of whom carried the wire and the
other a telephone apparatus; and as they moved
along the road other signal corps men picked up
the wire behind them at intervals, carrying it
along.

Tom was as proud of his machine as a general
could be of his horse, and he wheeled it along
beside him, keeping pace with the slow advance
of his companions, his heart beating high.

"If you have to come back with any message,
you'll remember Headquarters, won't you?'1 one
asked him.

3*

OVER THE TOP 37

"I always remember Headquarters," said Tom.

"And don't get rattled."

"I never get rattled."

" Watch the roads carefully as we go, so you
can get back all right. Noise don't bother you?"

"No, I'm used to artillery — I mean the noise,"
said Tom.

"You probably won't have much to do unless
in an emergency. If Fritzie cuts the wire or it
should get tangled and we couldn't reach the air-
men quick enough you'd have to beat it back.
There's two roads out of Cantigny. Remember
to take the south one. We're attacking on a mile
front. If you took "

"If I have to come back," said Tom, "I'll
come the same way. You needn't worry."

His advisor felt sufficiently squelched. And in-
deed, he had no cause to worry. The Powers that
Be had sent Thatchy into the West where the
battle line was changing every day and roads
were being made and destroyed and given new
directions; where the highway which took one to
Headquarters one day led into the lair of the
Hun on the next, and all the land was topsy-
turvy and changing like the designs in a kaleido-
scope— for the very good reason that Thatchy in-

38 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

variably reached his destination and could be de-
pended upon to come back, through all the chaos,
as a cat returns to her home. The prison camps
in Germany were not without Allied dispatch-
aiders who had become "rattled" and had blun-
dered into the enemy's arms, but Thatchy had a
kind of uncanny extra sense, a bump of locality,
if you will, and that is why they had sent him
Into this geographical tangle where maps became
out of date as fast as they were made.

The sun was not yet up when they reached a
wider road running crossways to the one out of
the village and here many troops were waiting as
far up and down the road as Tom could see. A
narrow ditch led away from the opposite side of
the road through the fields beyond, and looking
up and down the road he could see that there
were other ditches like it.

The tanks were already lumbering and waddling
across the fields, for all the world like great
clumsy mud turtles, with soldiers perched upon
them as if they were having a straw ride. Before
Tom and his companions entered the nearest ditch
he could see crowds of soldiers disappearing into
other ditches far up the road.

The fields above them were covered with shell

SHOWING WHERE THE AMERICANS WERE BILLETED : CANTIGNY,

WHICH THEY CAPTURED AND THE ROUTE TAKEN BY TOM AND

THE CARRIERS. ARROWS SHOW THE AREA OF ATTACK.

OVER THE TOP 39

holes, a little cemetery flanked one side of the
zigzag way, and the big dugouts of the reserves
were everywhere in this backyard of the trench
area. Out of narrow, crooked side avenues sol-
diers poured intc the communication trench which
the wire carriers were following, falling in ahead
of them.

"We'll get into the road after the boys go over
and then you'll have more room for your machine,
Close quarters, hey?" Tom's nearest companion
said.

When they reached the second-line trench the
boys were leaving it, by hundreds as it seemed to
[Tom, and crowding through the crooked com-
munication trenches. The wire carriers followed
on, holding up the wire at intervals. Once when
Tom peeped over the edge of the communication
trench he saw the tanks waddling along to right
and left, rearing up and bowing as they crossed
the trench, like clumsy, trained hippopotamuses.
And all the while the artillery was booming with
continuous, deafening roar.

Tom did not see the first of the boys to go
over the top for they were over by the time he
reached the second-line trench, but as he passed
along the fire trench toward the road he could see

40 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

them crowding over, and when he reached the
road the barbed wire entanglements lay flat in
many places, the boys picking their way across the
fallen meshes, the clumsy tanks waddling on
ahead, across No Man's Land. As far as Tom
could see along the line in either direction this
shell-torn area was being crossed by hundreds of
boys in khaki holding fixed bayonets, some going
ahead of the tanks and some perching on them.

Above him the whole district seemed to be in
pandemonium, men shouting and their voices
drowned by the thunder of artillery.

His first real sight of the attack was when he
clambered out of the trench where it crossed the
road and faced the flattened meshes of barbed
wire with its splintered supporting poles all
tangled in it. Never was there such a wreck.

"All right,'* he shouted down. "It's as flat as
a pancake — careful with the machine — lift the
back wheel — that's right!"

He could hardly hear his own voice for the
noise, and the very earth seemed to shake undes
the heavy barrage fire which protected them. In
one sweeping, hasty glance he saw scores of figures
in khaki running like mad and disappearing into
the enemy trenches beyond.

OVER THE TOP 41

"Do you mean to let the wire rest on this?"
he asked, as his machine was lifted up and the
first of the wire carriers came scrambling up after
it; "it might get short-circuited."

"We'll run it over the poles, only hurry," the?
men answered.

They were evidently the very last of the ad-
vancing force, and even as Tom looked across the
shell-torn area of No Man's Land, he could see
the men picking their way over the flattened en-
tanglements and pouring into the enemy trenches.
The tanks had already crossed these and were
rearing and waddling along, irresistible yet ridic-
ulous, like so many heroic mud turtles going forth
to glory. Here and there Tom could see the gray-
clad form of a German clambering out of the
trenches and rushing pell-mell to the rear.

But it was no time to stand and look. Hur-
riedly they disentangled a couple of the support-
ing poles, laying them so that the telephone wire
passed over them free of the barbed meshes and
Tom, mounting his machine, started at top speed
along the road across No Man's Land, dragging
the wire after him. Scarcely had he started when
he heard that wasplike whizzing close to him —
once, twice, and then a sharp metallic sound as a

42 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

bullet hit some part of his machine. He looked
back to see if the wire carriers were following, but
there was not a sign of any of them except his
companion who carried the apparatus, and just as
Tom looked this man twirled around like a top,
staggered, and fell.

The last of the Americans were picking their
way across the tangle of fallen wire before the
German fire trench. He could see them now and
again amid dense clouds of smoke as they
scrambled over the enemy sandbags and disap-
peared.

On he sped at top speed, not daring to looM
around again. He could feel that the wire was
dragging and he wondered where its supporters
could be; but he opened his cut-out to get every
last bit of power and sped on with the accumulat-
ing train of wire becoming a dead weight behind
him.

Now, far ahead, he could see gray-coated
figures scrambling frantically out of the first line
trench, and he thought that the Americans must
have carried the attack successfully that far, in
any event. Again came that whizzing sound
close to him, and still again a sharp metallic ring
as another bullet struck his machine. For a mo-

OVER THE TOP 43

ment he feared least a tire had been punctured,
but when neither collapsed he took fresh courage
and sped on.

The drag on the wire was lessening the speed
of his machine now and jerking dangerously at
intervals. But he thought of what one of those
soldiers had said banteringly to another — Stick
around at the other end of it and listen to what
you hear, and he was resolved that if limited
horse power and unlimited will power could get
this wire to those brave boys who were surging
and battling in the trenches ahead of him, could
drag it to them wherever they went, for the
glorious message they intended to send back across
it, it should be done.

There was not another soul visible on that road
now nor in the shell-torn area of No Man's Land
through which it ran. But the lone rider forged
ahead, zig-zagging his course to escape the bullets
of that unseen sharpshooter and because it seemed
to free the dragging, catching wire, affording him
little spurts of unobstructed speed.

Then suddenly the wire caught fast, and his
machine stopped and strained like a restive horse,
the power wheel racing furiously. Hurriedly he
looked behind him where the sinuous wire lay

44 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

along the road, far back — as far as he could see,
across the trampled entanglements and trenches.
Where were the others who were to help carry it
over? Killed?

Alone in the open area of No Man's Land,
Tom Slade paused for an instant to think. What
should he do?

Suddenly there appeared out of a shell hole not
twenty feet ahead of him a helmeted figure. It
rose up grimly, uncannily, like a dragon out of
the sea, and levelled a rifle straight at him. So
that was the lair of the sharpshooter!

Tom was not afraid. He knew that he had
been facing death and he was not afraid of what
he had been facing. He knew that the sharp-
shooter had him at last. Neither he nor the wire
were going to bear any message back.

"Anyway, I'm glad I wrote that letter,11 he
muttered.

TOM WAS SURPRISED TO FIND HIiMSELF UNINJURED, WHILE
THE BOCHE COLLAPSED INTO HIS SHELL HOLE.

Page 45

1

'

CHAPTER SEVEN

A SHOT

THEN, clear and crisp against the sound of the
great guns far off, there was the sharp crack of a
rifle and Tom was surprised to find himself still
standing by his machine uninjured, while the
Boche collapsed back into his shell hole like a
jack-in-the-box.

He did not pause to think now. Leaving his
machine, he rushed pell-mell back to the barbed
wire entanglement where the line was caught, dis-
engaged it and ran forward again to his wheel.
Shells were bursting all about him, but as he
mounted he could see two figures emerge, one
after the other, from the American trench where
it crossed the road, and take up the burden of
wire. He could feel the relief as he mounted and
rode forward and it lightened his heart as well
as his load. What had happened to delay the
carriers he did not know. Perhaps those who
followed him now were new ones and his former

45

46 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

companions lay dead or wounded within their
own lines. What he thought of most of all was
his extraordinary escape from the Boche sharp-
shooter and he wondered who and where his de-
liverer could be.

He avoided looking into the shell hole as he
passed it and soon he reached the enemy entangle-
ments which the tanks had flattened. Even the
flat meshes had been cleared from the road and
here several regulars waited to help him. They
were covered with dirt and looked as if they had
seen action.

"Bully for you, kid!" one of them said, slap-
ping Tom on the shoulder.

"You're all right, Towhead!"

"Lift the machine," said Tom; "they always
put broken glass in the roads. I thought maybe
they'd punctured my tire out there."

'They came near puncturing you, all right!
What's your name?"

'Thatchy is mostly what I get called. My
motorcycle is named Uncle Sam. Did you win
yet?"

For answer they laughed and slapped him on
the shoulder and repeated, "You're all right,
kid I"

A SHOT ,47

"Looks as if Snipy must have had his eye on
you, huh?" one of them observed.

"Who's Snipy?" Tom asked.

"Oh, that's mostly what he gets called," said
someone, mimicking Tom's own phrase. "His
rifle's named Tommy. He's probably up in a tree
somewheres out there."

"He's a good shot," said Tom simply. "I'd
like to see him."

"Nobody ever sees him — they feel him," said
another.

"He must have been somewhere," said Tom.

"Oh, he was somewhere all right," several
laughed.

A couple of the Signal Corps men jumped
out of the trench near by and greeted Tom
heartily, praising him as the others had done,
all of which he took with his usual stolid-
ness. Already, though of course he did not
know it, he was becoming somewhat of a
character.

"YouVe got Paul Revere and Phil Sheridan
beat a mile," one of the boys said.

'I don't know much about Sheridan," said
Tom, "but I always liked Paul Revere."

He did not seem to understand why they

48 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

laughed and clapped him on the shoulder and
said, "You'll do, kiddo."

But it was necessary to keep moving, for the
other carriers were coming along. The little
group passed up the road, Tom pushing his wheel
and answering their questions briefly and soberly
as he always did. Planks had been laid across
the German trenches where they intersected the
road and as they passed over them Tom looked
down upon many a gruesome sight which evi-
denced the surprise by the Americans and their
undoubted victory. Not a live German was to
be seen, nor a dead American either, but here
and there a fallen gray-coat lay sprawled in the
crooked topsy-turvy ditch. He could see the Red
Cross stretcher-bearers passing in and out of the
communication trenches and already a number of
boys in grimy khaki were engaged in repairing
the trenches where the tanks had caved them in.
In the second line trench lay several wounded
Americans and Tom was surprised to see one of
these propped up smoking a cigarette while the
surgeons bandaged his head until it looked like a
great white ball. Out of the huge bandage a
white face grinned up as the little group passed
across on the planks and seeing the men to be

A SHOT 49

wire carriers, the wounded soldier called, "Tell
'em we're here."

"Ever hear of Paul Revere?" one of the Sig-
nal men called back cheerily. And he rumpled
Tom's hair to indicate whom he meant.

Thus it was that Thatchy acquired the new
nickname by which he was to be known far and
wide in the country back of the lines and in the
billet villages where he was to sit, his trusty
motorcycle close at hand, waiting for messages and
standing no end of jollying. Some of the
more resourceful wits in khaki even parodied the
famous poem for his benefit, but he didn't care.
He would have matched Uncle Sam against
Paul Revere's gallant steed any day, and they
could jolly him and "kid" him as their mood
prompted, but woe be to the person who touched
his faithful machine save in his watchful pres-
ence. Even General Pershing would not have
been permitted to do that.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IN THE WOODS

BEYOND the enemy second line trench the road
led straight into Cantigny and Tom could see the
houses in the distance. Continuous firing was to
be heard there and he supposed that the Germans,
routed from their trenches, were making a stand
in the village and in the high ground beyond it.

"They'll be able to 'phone back, won't they?11
he asked anxiously.

"They sure will," one of the men answered.

"It ain't that I don't want to ride back," Tom
explained, "but a feller's waiting on the other
end of this wire, 'cause I heard somebody tell
him to, and I wouldn't want him to be disap-
pointed.

"He won't be disappointed."

The road, as well as the open country east and
west of it, was strewn with German dead and
wounded, among whom Tom saw one or two

50

IN THE WOODS 51

figures in khaki. The Red Cross was busy here,
many stretchers being borne up toward the village
where dressing stations were already being estab-
lished. Then suddenly Tom beheld a sight which
sent a thrill through him. Far along the road,
in the first glare of the rising sun, flew the Stars
and Stripes above a little cottage within the con-
fines of the village.

"Headquarters," one of his companions said,
laconically.

"Does it mean weVe won?" Tom asked.

"Not exactly yet," the other answered, "but as
long as the flag's up they probably won't bother
to take it down," and he looked at Tom in a
queer way. "There's cleaning up to do yet, kid,"
he added.

As they approached the village the hand-to-
hand fighting was nearing its end, and the Ger-
mans were withdrawing into the woods beyond
where they had many machine gun nests which it
would be the final work of the Americans to
smoke out. But Tom saw a little of that kind
of warfare which is fought in streets, from house
to house, and in shaded village greens. Singly and
in little groups the Americans sought out, killing,
capturing and pursuing the diminishing horde of

52 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

Germans. Two of these, running frantically with
apparently no definite purpose, surrendered to
Tom's group and he thought they seemed actually
relieved.

At last they reached the little cottage where
the flag flew and were received by the weary, but
elated, men in charge.

"All over but the shouting," someone said;
"we're finishing up back there in the woods."

The telephone apparatus was fastened to a
tree and Tom heard the words of the speaker
as he tried to get into communication with the
village which lay back across that shell-torn,
trench-crossed area which they had traversed. At
last he heard those thrilling words which carried
much farther than the length of the sinuous wire :

"Hello, this is Cantigny."

And he knew that whatever yet remained to be
done, the first real offensive operation of the
Americans was successful and he was proud to
feel that he had played his little part in it.

He was given leave until three o'clock in the
afternoon and, leaving Uncle Sam at the little
makeshift headquarters, he went about the town
for a sight of the "clean-up."

Farther back in the woods he could still hear

IN THE WOODS ( 53

the shooting where the Americans were searching
out machine gun nests and the boom of artillery
continued, but although an occasional shell fell in
the town, the place was quiet and even peaceful
by comparison with the bloody clamor of an
hour before.

It seemed strange that he, Tom Slade, should
be strolling about this quaint, war-scarred village,
which but a little while before had belonged to
the Germans. Here and there in the streets he
met sentinels and occasionally an airplane sailed
overhead. How he envied the men in those air-
planes !

He glanced in through broken windows at the
interiors of simple abodes which the bestial Huns
had devastated. It thrilled him that the boys
from America had dragged and driven the enemy
out of these homes and would dig their protect-
ing trenches around the other side of this stricken
village, like a great embracing arm. It stirred
him to think that it was now within the refuge
of the American lines and that the arrogant
Prussian officers could no longer defile those low,
raftered rooms.

He inquired of a sentinel where he could get
some gasoline which he would need later.

54 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"There's a supply station along that road,'* the
man said; ujust beyond the clearing."

Tom turned in that direction. The road toolc
him out of the village and through a little clump
of woods to a clearing where several Americans
were guarding a couple of big gasoline tanks —
part of the spoils of war. He lingered for a
few minutes and then strolled on toward the edge
of the denser wood beyond where the firing,
though less frequent, could still be heard.

He intended to go just far enough into this
wood for a glimpse of the forest shade which his
scouting had taught him to love, and then to re-
turn to headquarters for his machine.

Crossing a plank bridge across a narrow
stream, he paused in the edge of the woods and
listened to the firing which still occurred at in-
tervals in the higher ground beyond. He knew
that the fighting there was of the old-fashioned
sort, from behind protecting trees and wooded
hillocks, something like the good old fights of
Indians and buskskin scouts away home in the
wild west of America. And he could not repress
his impulse to venture farther into the solitude.

The stream wrhich he had crossed had evidently
its source in the more densely wooded hills be-

IN THE WOODS 55

yond and he followed it on its narrowing way up
toward the locality where the fighting seemed now
to be going on. Once a group of khaki-clad
figures passed stealthily among the trees, intent
upon some quest. The sight of their rifles re-
minded Tom that he was himself in danger, but
he reflected that he was in no greater danger than
they and that he had with him the small arm
which all messengers carried.

A little farther on he espied an American con-
cealed behind a tree, who nodded his head per-
functorily as Tom passed, seeming to discourage
any spoken greeting.

The path of the stream led into an area of
thick undergrowth covering the side of a gentle
slope where the water tumbled down in little falls.
He must be approaching very near to the source,
he thought, for the stream was becoming a mere
trickle, picking its way around rocky obstacles in
a very jungle of thick underbrush.

Suddenly he stopped at a slight rustling sound
very near him.

It was the familiar sound which he had so
often heard away back in the Adirondack woods,
©f some startled creature scurrying to shelter.

He was the scout again now, standing motion*

56 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

less and silent — keenly waiting. Then, to his
amazement, a clump of bushes almost at his feet
stirred slightly. He waited still, watching, his
heart in his mouth. Could it have been the
breeze? But there was no breeze.

Startled, but discreetly motionless, he fixed
his eyes upon the leafy clump, still waiting.
Presently it stirred again, very perceptibly now,
then moved, clumsily and uncannily, and with a
slight rustling of its leaves, along the bank of the
stream !

CHAPTER NINE

THE MYSTERIOUS FUGITIVE

SUDDENLY the thing stopped, and its whole
bulk was shaken very noticeably. Then a head
emerged from it and before Tom could realize
what had happened a German soldier wras fully
revealed, brushing the leaves and dirt from his
gray coat as he stole cautiously along the edge of
the stream, peering anxiously about him and
pausing now and again to listen.

He was already some distance from Tom,
whom apparently he had not discovered, and his
stealthy movements suggested that he was either
in the act of escaping or was bent upon some
secret business of importance.

Without a sound Tom slipped behind a tree
and watched the man who paused like a startled
animal at every few steps, watching and listening.

Tom knew that, notwithstanding his non-com-
batant status, he was quite justified in drawing
his pistol upon this fleeing Boche, but before he

57

58 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

had realized this the figure had gone too far te
afford him much hope of success with the small
weapon which he was not accustomed to. More-
over, just because he was a "non-com" he balked
at using it. If he should miss, he thought, the
man might turn upon him and with a surer aim
lay him low.

But there was one thing in which Tom Slade
felt himself to be the equal of any German that
lived, and that was stalking. Here, in the deep
woods, among these protecting trees, he felt at
home, and the lure of scouting was upon him
now. No one could lose him; no one could get
away from him. And a bird in the air would
make no more noise than he!

Swiftly, silently, he slipped from one tree to
another, his keen eye always fixed upon the fleet-
ing figure and his ears alert to learn if, perchance,
the Boche was being pursued. Not a sound could
he hear except that of the distant shooting.

It occurred to him that the precaution of
camouflaging might be useful to him also, and
he silently disposed one of the leafy boughs
which the German had left diagonally across his
breast with the fork over his shoulder so that
it formed a sort of adjustable screen, more port-

THE MYSTERIOUS FUGITIVE 59

able and less clumsy than the leafy mound which
had covered the Boche.

With this he stole along, sometimes hiding be-
hind trees, sometimes crouching among the rocks
along the bank, and keeping at an even distance
from the man. His method with its personal dex-
terity was eloquent of the American scout, just
as the Boche, under his mound of foliage, had
been typical of the German who depends largely
upon device and little upon personal skill and
dexterity.

The scout from Temple Camp had his ruses,
too, for once when the German, startled by a
fancied sound, seemed about to look behind him,
Tom dexterously hurled a stone far to the left
of his quarry, which diverted the man's atten-
tion to that direction and kept it there while Tom,
gliding this way and that and raising or lowering
his scant disguise, crept after him.

They were now in an isolated spot and the
distant firing seemed farther and farther away.
The stream, reduced to a mere trickle, worked
its way down among rocks and the German fol-
lowed its course closely. What he was about in
this sequestered jungle Tom could not imagine,
unless, indeed, he was fleeing from his own mas*

60 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

ters. But surely open surrender to the Americans
would have been safer than that, and Tom re-
membered how readily those other German sol-
diers had rushed into the arms of himself and his
companions.

Moreover, the more overgrown the brook be-
came and the more involved its path, the more
the hurrying German seemed bent upon follow-
ing it and instead of finding any measure of re-
lief from anxiety in this isolated place, he ap-
peared more anxious than ever and peered care-
fully about him at every few steps.

At length, to Tom's astonishment, he stepped
across the brook and felt of a clump of bush
which grew on the bank. Could he have expected
to find another camouflaged figure, Tom won-
dered ?

Whatever he was after, he apparently thought
lie had reached his destination for he now moved
hurriedly about, feeling the single bushes and
moving among the larger clumps as if in quest of
something. After a few moments he paused as
if perplexed and moved farther up the stream.
And Tom, who had been crouching behind a
bush at a safe distance, crept silently to another
one, greatly puzzled but watching him closely*

TOM SLIPPED BEHIND A TREE AND WATCHED THE MAN WHO

PAUSED LIKE A STARTLED ANIMAL. page 57

THE MYSTERIOUS FUGITIVE 61

Selecting another spot, the Boche moved about
among the bushes as before, carefully examining
each one which stood by itself. Tom expected
every minute to see some grim, gray-coated figure
Istep out of his leafy retreat to join his comrade,
but why such a person should wait to be dis-
covered Tom could not comprehend, for he must
have heard and probably seen this beating through
the bushes.

An especially symmetrical bush stood on the
brink of the stream and after poking about this
as usual, the German stood upon tiptoe, appar-
ently looking down into it, then kneeled at its
base while Tom watched from his hiding-place.

Suddenly a sharp report rang out and the Ger-
man jumped to his feet, clutched frantically at
the brush which seemed to furnish a substantial
support, then reeled awray and fell headlong into
the brook, where he lay motionless.

The heedless current, adapting itself readily
to this grim obstruction, bubbled gaily around the
gray, crumpled form, accelerating its cheery
progress in the narrow path and showing little
glints of red in its crystal, dancing ripples.

CHAPTER TEN

THE JERSEY SNIPE

TOM hurried to the prostrate figure and saw
that the German was quite dead. There was no
other sign of human presence and not a sound
to be heard but the rippling of the clear water
at his feet.

For a few moments he stood, surprised and
silent, listening. Then he fancied that he heard a
rustling in the bushes some distance away and he
looked in that direction, standing motionless, alert
for the slightest stir.

Suddenly there emerged out of the under-
growth a hundred or more feet distant a strange
looking figure clad in a dull shade of green with
a green skull cap and a green scarf, like a scout
scarf, loosely thrown about his neck. Even the
rifle which he carried jauntily over his shoulder
was green in color, so that he seemed to Tom
to have that general hue wrhich things assume
when seen through green spectacles. He was

62

THE JERSEY SNIPE 63

V

lithe and agile, gliding through the bushes as if
he were a part of them, and he came straight
toward Tom, with a nimbleness which almost
rivalled that of a squirrel.

There was something about his jaunty, light
'step which puzzled Tom and he narrowed his
eyes, watching the approaching figure closely.
The stranger removed a cigarette from his mouth
to enable him the better to lay his finger upon his
lips, imposing silence, and as he did so the move-
ment of his hand and his way of holding the
cigarette somehow caused Tom to stare.

Then his puzzled scrutiny gave way to an ex-
pression of blank amazement, as again the figure
raised his finger to his lips to anticipate any im-
pulse of Tom's to call. Nor did Tom violate this
caution until the stranger was within a dozen feet
or so.

"Roscoe — Bent!" he ejaculated. "Don't you
know me? I'm Tom Slade."

"Well— I'll— be " Roscoe began, then

broke off, holding Tom at arm's length and look-
ing at him incredulously. "Tom Slade — I'll be —
jiggered!"

:'I kinder knew it was you," said Tom in his
impassive way, "as soon as I saw you take that

64 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

cigarette out of your mouth, 'cause you do it
such a swell way, kind of," he added, ingenuously;
"just like the way you used to when you sat on
the window-sill in Temple Camp office and jollied
Margaret Ellison. Maybe you don't remember."

Still Roscoe held him at arm's length, smiling
all over his handsome, vivacious face. Then he
removed one of his hands from Tom's shoulder
and gave him a push in the chest in the old way.

"It's the same old Tom Slade, I'll be

And with the front of your belt away around at
the side, as usual. This is better than taking a
hundred prisoners. How are you and how'd you
get here, you sober old tow-head, you?" and he
gripped Tom's hand with impulsive vehemence.
'This sure does beat all! I might have known
if I found you at all it would be in the woods,
you old pathfinder!" and he gave Tom another
shove, then rapped him on the shoulder and
slipped his hand around his neck in a way all his
own.

"I — I like to hear you talk that way," said
Tom, with that queer dullness which Roscoe
liked; "it reminds me of old times."

"Kind of?" prompted Roscoe, laughing. "Is
our friend here dead?"

THE JERSEY SNIPE 65

"Yes, he's very dead," said Tom soberly, "but
I think there are others around in the bushes."

"There are some enemies there," said Roscoe,
"but we won't kill them. Contemptible mur-
derers!" he muttered, as he hauled the dead
Boche out of the stream. "I'll pick you off one
by one, as fast as you come up here, you gang
of back-stabbers ! Look here," he added.

'I got to admit you can do it," said Tom
with frank admiration.

Roscoe pulled away the shrubbery where the
German had been kneeling when he was struck
and there was revealed a great hogshead, larger,
Tom thought, than any he had ever seen.

"That's the kind of weapons they fight with,"
Roscoe said, disgustedly. "Look here," he added,
pulling the foliage away still more. "Don't touch
it. See? It leads down from another one. It's
poison."

Tom, staring, understood well enough now, and
he peered into the bushes about him in amaze-
ment as he heard Roscoe say,

"Arsenic, the sneaky beasts."

"See what he was going to do?" he added,

startling Tom out of his silent wondering.

'There's half a dozen or more of these hogsheads

66 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

in those bushes. As fast as this one empties it
fills up again from another that stands higher.
There's a whole nest of them here. See how the
pipe from this one leads into the stream?"

"What's tne wire for?" said Tom.

"Oh, that's so's they can open this little cock
here, see? Start the thing going. Don't pul}
away the camouflage. There may be another
chap up here in a little while, to see what's the
matter. Tommy'll take care of them all right,
won't you, Tommy?"

"Do you mean me?" Tom asked.

"I mean your namesake here," Roscoe said,
slapping his rifle. "I named it after you, you
old glum head. Remember how you told me a
feller couldn't aim straight, kind of" (he
mimicked Tom's tone). 'You said a feller
couldn't aim straight, kind of, if he smoked
cigarettes."

'I got to admit I was wrong," said Tom.
'You bet you have ! Jingoes, it's good to heat \
you talk!" Roscoe laughed. :'How in the world
did you get here, anyway?"

"I'll tell you all about it," said Tom, "only
first tell me, are you the feller they call the
Jersey Snipe?"

THE JERSEY SNIPE 67

"Snipy, for short," said Roscoe.

"Then maybe you saved my life already," said
Tom, "out in No Man's Land."

"Were you the kid on that wheel?" Roscoe
asked, surprised.

"Yes, and I always knew you'd make a good
soldier. I told everybody so."

"Kind off Tommy, old boy, don't forget it
was you made me a soldier," Roscoe said soberly.
"Come on back to my perch with me," he added,
"and tell me all about your adventures. This is
better than taking Berlin. There's only one per-
son in this little old world I'd rather meet in a
lonely place, and that's the Kaiser. Come on —
quiet now."

'You don't think you can show me how to
stalk, do you?" said Tom.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ON GUARD

"You see it was this way," said Roscoe after
he had scrambled with amazing agility up to his
"perch" in a tree several hundred feet distant
but in full view of the stream. Tom had climbed
up after him and was looking with curious
pleasure at the little kit of rations and other per-
sonal paraphernalia which hung from neighbor-
ing branches. ;<How do you like my private
camp? Got Temple Camp beat, hey?" he broke
off in that erratic way of his. "All the comforts
of home. Come on, get into your camouflage."

"You don't seem the same as when you used
to come up to our office from the bank down-
stairs— that's one sure thing," said Tom, pulling
the leaves about him.

"You thought all I was good for was to jolly
Margaret Ellison, huh?"

"I see now that you didn't only save my life
but lots of other fellers', too," said Tom. "Go
on, you started to tell me about it."

68

ON GUARD 69

It was very pleasant and cosy up there in the
sniper's perch where Roscoe had gathered the
thinner branches about him, forming a little leafy
lair, in which his agile figure and his quick glances
about reminded Tom for all the world of a
squirrel. He could hardly believe that this watch-
ful, dexterous creature, peering cautiously out of
his romantic retreat, was the same Roscoe Bent
who used to make fun of the scouts and sneak
upstairs to smoke cigarettes in the Temple Camp
office; who thought as much of his spotless high
collar then as he seemed to think of his rifle now.

"I got to thank you because you named it
after me," said Tom.

"And I got to thank you that you gave me the
chance to get it to name after you, Tommy. Well,
you see it was this way," Roscoe went on in a
half whisper; "there were half a dozen of us over
here in the woods and we'd just cleaned out a
machine gun nest when we saw this miniature
forest moving along. I thought it was a dec-
orated moving van."

"That's the trouble with them," agreed Tom;
"they're no good in the woods; they're clumsy.
They're punk scouts."

"Scouts!" Roscoe chuckled. "If we had to

70 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

fight this gang of cut-throats and murderers in
the woods where old What's-his-name — Custer —
had to fight the Indians, take it from me, we'd
have them wiped up in a month. That fellow's
idea of camouflaging was to bury himself under
a couple of tons of green stuff and then move the
whole business along like a clumsy old Zeppelin.
I can camouflage myself with a branch with ten
leaves on it by studying the light."

"Anybody can see youVe learned something
about scouting — that's one sure thing," said Tom
proudly.

"One sure thing!' Roscoe laughed inaudibly.
"It's the same old Tommy Slade. Well, I was
just going to bean this geezer when my officer
told me I'd better follow him."

"I was following him, too," said Tom; "stalk-
ing is the word you ought to use."

"Captain thought he might be up to some-
thing special. So I followed — stalked — how's
that?"
' "All right."

"So I stalked him and when I saw he was fol-
lowing the stream I made a detour and waited
for him right here. You see what he was up to?
Way down in Cantigny they could turn a switch

ON GUARD 71

and start this blamed poison, half a dozen hogs-
heads of it, flowing into the stream. They
waited till they lost the town before they turned
the switch, and they probably thought they could
poison us Americans by wholesale. Maybe they
had some reason to think the blamed thing hadn't
worked, and sent this fellow up. I beaned him
just as he was going to turn the stop-cock."

"Maybe you saved a whole lot of lives, hey?"
said Tom proudly.

Roscoe shrugged his shoulder in that careless
way he had. 'Til be glad to meet any more
that come along," he said.

It was well that Tom Slade's first sight of de-
liberate killing was in connection with so despic-
able a proceeding as the wholesale poisoning of a
stream. He could feel no pity for the man who,
fleeing from those who fought cleanly and like
men instead of beasts, had sought to pour this
potent liquid of anguish and death into the run-
ning crystal water. Such acts, it seemed to him,
were quite removed from the sphere of honorable,
manly fighting.

As a scout he had learned that it was wrong
even to bathe in a stream whence drinking water
was obtained, and at camp he had always scrup-

72 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

ulously observed this good rule. He felt that
it was cowardly to defile the waters of a brook.
It was not a "mailed fist" at all which could do
such things, but a fist dripping with poison.

And Tom Slade felt no qualm, as otherwise
he might have felt, at hiding there waiting for
new victims. He was proud and thrilled to see
his friend, secreted in his perch, keen-eyed and
alert, guarding alone the crystal purity of this
laughing, life-giving brook, as it hurried along its
pebbly bed and tumbled in little gushing falls and
wound cheerily around the rocks, bearing its grate-
ful refreshment to the weary, thirsty boys \th&
were holding the neighboring village.

"I used to think I wouldn't like to be a sniper,"
he said, "but now it seems different. I saw two
fellers in the village and one had a bandage on
his arm and the other one who was talking to
him — I heard him say a long drink of water
would go good — and — I — kind of — now "

The Jersey Snipe winked at Tom and patted
his rifle as a man might pat a favorite dog.

"It's good fresh water," said he.

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHAT'S IN A NAME ?

IN Tom's visions of the great war there had
been no picture of the sniper, that single rem-
nant of romantic and adventurous warfare, in al
the roar and clangor of the horrible modern fight-
ing apparatus.

He had seen American boys herded onto great
ships by thousands; and, marching and eating and
drilling in thousands, they had seemed like a
great machine. He knew the murderous sub-
marine, the aeroplane with its ear-splitting whir,
the big clumsy Zeppelin; and he had handled gas
masks and grenades and poison gas bombs.

But in his thoughts of the war and all these
diabolical agents of wholesale death there had
been no visions of the quiet, stealthy figure, in-
conspicuous in the counterfeiting hues of tree

73

74 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

and rjock, stealing silently away with his trusty
rifle and his week's rations for a lonely vigil in
some sequestered spot.

There was the same attraction about this free-
lance warfare which there might have been about
a privateer in contrast with a flotilla of modern
dreadnaughts and frantic chasers, and it reminded
him of Daniel B-oone, and Kit Carson, and Davy
Crockett, and other redoubtable scouts of old who
did not depend on stenching suffocation and the
poisoning of streams. It was odd that he had
never known much about the sniper, that one in-
strumentality of the war who seems to have been
able to preserve a romantic identity in all the
bloody melee of the mighty conflict.

For Tom had been a scout and the arts of
stealth and concealment and nature's resourceful
disguises had been his. He had thought of the
sniper as of one whose shooting is done peculiarly
in cold blood, and he was surprised and pleased
to find his friend in this romantic and noble role
of holding back, single-handed, as it were, these
vile agents of agonizing death.

Arsenic! Tom knew from his memorized list
of poison antidotes that if one drinks arsenic he
will be seized with agony unspeakable and die in

WHAT'S IN A NAME? 75

slow and utter torture. The more he thought
about it the more the cold, steady eye of the
unseen sniper and his felling shot seemed noble
and heroic.

Almost unconsciously he reached out and patted
the rifle also as if it were some trusted living
thing — an ally.

"Did you really mean you named it after me —
honest?" he asked.

"Roscoe laughed again silently. "See?" he
whispered, holding it across, and Tom could dis-
tinguish the crudely engraved letters, TOMMY.

" — Because I never had anything named after
me," he said in his simple, dull way. 'There's a
place on the lake up at Temple Camp that the
fellers named after Roy Blakeley — Blakeley Isle.
And there's a new pavilion up there that's named
after Mr. Ellsworth, our scoutmaster. And Mr.
Temple's got lots of things — orphan asylums and
gymnasiums and buildings and things — named
after him. I always thought it must be fine. I
ain't that kind — sort of — that fellers name things
after," he added, with a blunt simplicity that
went to Roscoe's heart; and he held the rifle, as
the sniper started to take it back, his eyes still
fixed upon the rough scratches which formed his

76 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

own name. "In Bridgeboro there was a place in
Barrell Alley," he went on, apparently without
feeling, "where my father fell down one night
when he was — when he'd had too much to drink,
and after that everybody down there called it
Slade's Hole. When I got in with the scouts, I
didn't like it— kind of "

Roscoe looked straight at Tom with a look as
sure and steady as his rifle. "Slade's Hole isn't
known outside of Barrell Alley, Tom," he said
impressively, although in the same cautious un-
dertone, "but Tom Slade is known from one end
of this sector to the other."

"Thatchy's what they called me in Toul sector,
'cause my hair's always musced up, I s'pose,
and "

"The first time I ever saw you to really know
you, Tom, your hair was all mussed up — and I
hope it'll always stay that way. That was when
you came up there in the woods and made me
promise to go back and register."

"I knew you'd go back 'cause "

"I went back with bells on, and here I am.
And here's Tom Slade that's stuck by me through
this war. It's named Tom Slade because it makes
good — see? Look here, I'll show you something

* V WHAT'S IN A NAME? 77

else — you old hickory nut, you. See that," he
added, pulling a small object from somewhere in
his clothing.

Tom stared. "It's the Distinguished Service
Cross," he said, his longing eyes fixed upon it.

"That's what it is. The old gent handed me
that — if anybody should ask you."

Tom smiled, remembering Roscoe's familiar
way of speaking of the dignified Mr. Temple,
and of "Old Man" Burton, and "Pop" this and
that.

"General Pershing?"

"The same. You've heard of him, haven't
you ? Very muchly, huh ?"

"Why don't you wear it?" Tom asked.

"Why? Well, I'll tell you why. When your
friend, Thatchy, followed me on that crazy trip
of mine he borrowed some money for railroad
fare, didn't he? And he had a Gold Cross that
he used to get the money, huh? So I made up
my mind that this little old souvenir from Uncle
Samuel wouldn't hang on my distinguished breast
till I got back and paid Tom Slade what I owed
him and made sure that he'd got his own Cross
safely back and was wearing it again. Do you
get me?"

78 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"I got my Cross back," said Tom, "and it's
home. So you can put that on. You got to tell
me how you got it, too. I always knew you'd
make a success."

"It was Tommy Slade helped me to it, as
usual. I beaned nine Germans out in No Man's
Land, and got away slightly wounded — I stubbed
my toe. Old Pop Clemenceau gave me a kiss and
the old gent slipped me this for good luck," Ros-
coe said, pinning on the Cross to please Tom.
'When Clemmy saw the name on the rifle, he
asked what it meant and I told him it was named
after a pal of mine back home in the U. S. A. — >
Tom Slade. Little I knew you were waltzing
around the war zone on that thing of yours. I
almost laughed in his face when he said, 'M'soo
Tommee should be proud.'

So the Premier of France had spoken the name
of Tom Slade, whose father had had a mud hole
in Barrell Alley named after him.

"I am proud," he stammered; "that's one sure
thing. I'm proud on account of you — I am."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE FOUNTAINS OF DESTRUCTION

As Tom had the balance of the day to himself
he cherished but one thought — that of remaining
with Roscoe as long as his leave would permit.
If he had been in the woods up at Temple Camp,
away back home in his beloved Catskills, he
could hardly have felt more at home than he felt
perched in this tree near the headwaters of the
running stream; and to have Roscoe Bent crouch-
ing there beside him was more than his fondest
dreams of doing his bit had pictured.

At short intervals they could hear firing, some-
times voices in the distance, and occasionally the
boom of artillery, but except for these reminders
of the fighting the scene was of that sort which
Tom loved. It was there, while the sniper, all
unseen, guarded the source of the stream, his
keen eye alert for any stealthy approach, that
Tom told him in hushed tones the story of his

79

80 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

own experiences; how he had been a ship's boy
on a transport, and had been taken aboard the
German Z7-boat that had torpedoed her and held
in a German prison camp, from which he and
Archer had escaped and made their way through
the Black Forest and across the Swiss border.

"Some kid!" commented Roscoe, admiringly;
"the world ain't big enough for you, Tommy. If
you were just back from Mars I don't believe
you'd be excited about it."

"Why should I be?" said literal Tom. "It
was only because the feller I was with was born
lucky; he always said so."

Oh, yes, of course," said Roscoe sarcastically.
I say he was mighty lucky to be with you- Feel
like eating?"

It was delightful to Tom sitting there in their
leafy concealment, waiting for any other hapless
German emissaries who might come, bent on the
murderous defilement of that crystal brook, and
eating of the rations which Roscoe never failed to
have with him.

"You're kind of like a pioneer," he said, "going
off where there isn't anybody. They have to trust
you to do what you think best a lot, I guess, don't
they? A feller said they often hear you but they

u
It

FOUNTAINS OF DESTRUCTION 81

never see you. I saw you riding on one of the
tanks, but I didn't know it was you. Funny,
wasn't it?"

"I usually hook a ride. The tanks get on my
nerves, though, they're so slow."

'You're like a squirrel," said Tom admiringly.
'Well, you're like a bulldog," said Roscoe.
"Still got the same old scowl on your face, haven't
you? So they kid you a lot, do they?"

"I don't mind it."

^o they talked, in half whispers, always scan-
ning the woods about them, until after some time
their vigil was rewarded by the sight of three
gray-coated, helmeted figures coming up the bank
of the stream. They made no pretence of con-
cealment, evidently believing themselves to be safe
here in the forest. Roscoe had hauled the body
of the dead German under the thick brush so
that it might not furnish a warning to other
visitors, and now he brought his rifle into posi-
tion and touching his finger to his lips by way of
I caution he fixed his steady eye on the approaching
trio.

One of these was a tremendous man and, from
his uniform and arrogant bearing, evidently an
officer. The other two were plain, ordinary

82 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"Fritzies." Tom believed that they had come to
this spot by some circuitous route, bent upon the
act which their comrade and the mechanism had
failed to accomplish. He watched them in sus-4
pense, glancing occasionally at Roscoe.

The German officer evidently knew the ground
for he went straight to the bush where the hogs-
head stood concealed, and beckoned to his two
underlings. Tom, not daring to stir, looked ex-
pectantly at Roscoe, whose rifle was aimed and
resting across a convenient branch before him.
The sniper's intent profile was a study. Tom
wondered why he did not fire. He saw one of the
Boches approach the officer, who evidently would
not deign to stoop, and kneel at the foot of the
bush. Then the crisp, echoing report of Ros-
coe's rifle rang out, and on the instant the officer
and the remaining soldier disappeared behind the
leaf-covered hogshead. Tom was aware of the
one German lying beside the bush, stark and
motionless, and of Roscoe jerking his head and
screwing up his mouth in a sort of spontaneous
vexation. Then he looked suddenly at Tom and
winked unmirthfully with a kind of worried an-
noyance.

"Think they can hit us from there? Think

FOUNTAINS OF DESTRUCTION 83

they know where we are?" Tom asked in the faint-
est whisper.

" 'Tisn't that/' Roscoe whispered back. "Look
at that fiat stone under the bush there. Shh! I
couldn't get him in the right light before. Shh I"

Narrowing his eyes, Tom scanned the earth at
the foot of the bush and was just able to discern
a little band of black upon a gray stone there.
It was evidently a wet spot on the dusty stone
and for a second he thought it was blood; then
the staggering truth dawned upon him that in
shooting the Hun in the very act of letting loose
the murderous liquid Roscoe had shot a hole in
the hogshead and the potent poison was flowing
out rapidly and down into the stream.

And just in that moment there flashed into
Tom's mind the picture of that weary, perspiring
boy in khaki down in captured Cantigny, who
had mopped his forehead, saying, "A drink of
water would go good now."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TOM USES HIS FIRST BULLET

IT had been a pet saying of Tom's scoutmaster
back in America that you should wait long enough
to make up your mind and not one second longer.

Tom knew that the pressure of liquid above
that fatal bullet hole near the bottom of the
hogshead was great enough to send the poison
fairly pouring out. He could not see this death-
dealing stream, for it was hidden in the bush,
but he knew that it would continue to pour forth
until several of these great receptacles had been
emptied and the running brook with its refresh-
ing coolness had become an instrument of fright-
ful death.

Safe behind the protecting bulk of the hogs-
head crouched the two surviving Germans, while
Roscoe, covering the spot, kept his eyes riveted
upon it for the first rash move of either of the

84

TOiM USES HIS FIRST BULLET 85

pair. And meanwhile the poison poured out of
the very bulwark that shielded them and into the
swift-running stream.

"I don't think they've got us spotted," Tom
whispered, moving cautiously toward the trunk of
the tree; "the private had a rifle, didn't he?'1

"What are you going to do?" Roscoe breathed

"Stop up that hole. Give me a bullet, wiP,
you?"

"You're taking a big chance, Tom."

"I ain't thinking about that. Give me a bullet.
All you got to do is keep those two covered."

With a silent dexterity which seemed singularly
out of keeping with his rather heavy build, Tom
shinnied down the side of the tree farthest from
the brook, and lying almost prone upon the
ground began wriggling his way through the
sparse brush, quickening his progress now and
again whenever the diverting roar of distant
artillery or the closer report of rifles and machine
guns enabled him to advance with less caution.

In a few minutes he reached the stream, ap-
parently undiscovered, when suddenly he was
startled by another rifle report, close at hand,
and he lay flat, breathing in suspense.

It was simply that one of that pair had made

86 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

the mistake so often made in the trenches of rais-
ing his head, and had paid the penalty.

Tom was just cautiously crossing the brook
when he became aware of a frantic scramble in
the bush and saw the German private rushing
pell-mell through the thick undergrowth beyond,
hiding himself in it as best he might and appar-
ently trying to keep the bush-enshrouded hogs-
head between himself and the tree where the
sniper was. Evidently he had discovered Ros-
coe's perch and, there being now no restraining
authority, had decided on flight. It had been the
officer's battle, not his, and he abandoned it as
soon as the officer was shot. It was typical of the
German system and of the total lack of indi-
vidual spirit and resource of the poor wretches
who fight for Kaiser Bill's glory.

Reaching the bush, Tom pulled away the leafy
covering and saw that the poisonous liquid was
pouring out of a clean bullet hole as he had sus-
pected. He hurriedly wrapped a bit of the gauze
bandage which he always carried around the bullet
Roscoe had given him and forced it into the hole,
wedging it tight with a rock. Then he waved his
hand in the direction of the tree to let Roscoe
know that all was well.

TOM USES HIS FIRST BULLET 87

Tom Slade had used his first bullet and it had
saved hundreds of lives.

"They're both dead," he said, as Roscoe came
quickly through the underbrush in the gathering
dusk. "Did the officer put his head up?"

"Mm-rnm," said Roscoe, examining the two
victims.

"You always kill, don't you?" said Tom.

"I have to, Tommy. You see, I'm all alone,
mostly," Roscoe added as he fumbled in the dead
officer's clothing. 'There are no surgeons or
nurses in reach. I don't have stretcher-bearers
following me around and it isn't often that even
a Hun will surrender, fair and square, to one
man. I've seen too much of this 'kamarad' busi-
ness. I can't afford to take chances, Tommy. But
I don't put nicks in my rifle butt like some of
them do. I don't want to know how many I
beaned after it's all over. We kill to save —
that's the idea you want to get into your head,
Tommy boy."

"I know it," said Tom.

The officer had no papers of any importance
and since it was getting dark and Tom must re-
port at headquarters, they discussed the possibility
of upsetting these murderous hogsheads, and put-

TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

ting an end to the danger. Evidently the woods
were not yet wholly cleared of the enemy who
might still seek to make use of these agents of
destruction.

'There may be stragglers in the woods even
to-morrow," Roscoe said.

i

"S'pose we dig a little trench running away
from the brook and then turn on the cock and
let the stuff flow off?" suggested Tom.

The idea seemed a good one and they fell to,
hewing out a ditch with a couple of sticks. It
was a very crude piece of engineering, as Roscoe
observed, and they were embarrassed in their
work by the gathering darkness, but at length
they succeeded, by dint of jabbing and plowing
and lifting the earth out in handfuls, in ex-
cavating a little gully through the rising bank so
that the liquid would flow off and down the rocky
decline beyond at a safe distance from the stream.

For upwards of an hour they remained close
by, until the hogsheads had run dry, and then
they set out through the woods for the captured
village.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE GUN PIT

"I THINK the best way to get into the village,"
said Roscoe, uis to follow the edge of the wood
around. That'll bring us to the by-path that runs
into the main road. They've got the woods
pretty well cleared out over that way. There's a
road a little north of here and I think the Ger-
mans have withdrawn across that. What do you
say?"

"You know more about it than I do," said
Tom. "I followed the brook up. It's pretty bad
in some places."

"There's only two of us," said Roscoe, uand
you've no rifle. Safety first."

"I suppose there's a lot of places they could
hide along the brook; the brush is pretty thick all
the way up," Tom added.

Roscoe whistled softly in indecision. k'I like
the open better," said he.

"I guess so," Tom agreed, "when there's only
two of us."

89

90 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"There's three of us, though," said Roscoe,
"and Tommy here likes the open better. I'd toss
up a coin only with these blamed French coins
you can't tell which is heads and which is tails."

Roscoe was right about the Germans having
withdrawn beyond the road north of the woods.
Whether he was right about its being safer to go
around the edge of the forest remained to be de-
termined.

This wood, in which they had passed the day,
extended north of the village (see map) and
thinned out upon the eastern side so that one fol-
lowing the eastern edge would emerge from the
wood a little east of the main settlement. Here
was the by-path which Roscoe had mentioned, and
which led down into the main road.

Running east and west across the northern ex-
tremity of the woods was a road, and the Ger-
mans, driven first from their trenches, then out
of the village, and then out of the woods, were
establishing their lines north of this road.

If the boys had followed the brook down they
would have reached the village by a much
shorter course, but Roscoe preferred the open
country where they could keep a better lookout.
Whether his decision was a wise one, we shall see.

SHOWING PATH TAKEN BY TOM AND ROSCOE THROUGH

THE WOODS

THE GUN PIT 91.

Leaving the scene of their "complete annihila-
tion of the crack poison division," as Roscoe said,
they followed the ragged edge of the woods
where it thinned out to the north, verging around
with it until they were headed in a southerly direc-
tion.

"There's a house on that path," said Roscoe,
"and we ought to be able to see a light there
pretty soon."

"There's a little piece of woods ahead of us,"
said Tom; "when we get past that we'll see it,
I guess. We'll cut through there, hey?"

'Wait a minute," said Roscoe, pausing and
peering about in the half darkness. "I'm all
twisted. There's the house now."

He pointed to a dim light in the opposite direc-
tion to that which they had taken.

"That's north," said Tom in his usual dull

manner.

cc

You're mistaken, my boy. What makes you
think it's north?"

"I didn't say I thought so," said Tom. "I
said it is."

Roscoe laughed. "Same old Tom," he said.
But how do you know it's north?"
"You remember that mountain up in the

C(

92 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

Catskills?" Tom said. "The first time I ever
went to the top of that mountain was in the
middle of the night. I never make that kind of
mistakes. I know because I just know."

Roscoe laughed again and looked rather
dubiously at the light in the distance. Then he
shook his head, unconvinced.

'We've been winding in and out along the
edge of this woods," said Tom, uso that you're
kind of mixed up, that's all. It's always those
little turns that throw people out, just like it's a
choppy sea that upsets a boat; it ain't the big
waves. I used to get rattled like that myself, but
I don't any more."

Roscoe drew his lips tight and shook his head
skeptically. 'I can't understand about that
light," he said.

'I always told you you made a mistake not to
be a scout when you were younger," said Tom in
that impassive tone which seemed utterly free of
the spirit of criticism and which always amused
Roscoe, 'cause then you wouldn't bother about
the light but you'd look at the stars. Those are

sure.'

Roscoe looked up at the sky and back at Tom,
and perhaps he found a kind of reassurance in

THE GUN PIT 93

that stolid face. "All right, Tommy," said he,
"what you say, goes. Come ahead."

"That light is probably on the road the Ger-
mans retreated across," said Tom, as they picked
their way along. His unerring instinct left him
entirely free from the doubts which Roscoe could
not altogether dismiss. "I don't say there ain't
a light on the path you're talking about, but if
we followed this one we'd probably get captured.
I was seven months in a German prison. I don't
know how you'd like it, but I didn't."

Roscoe laughed silently at Tom's dry way of
putting it. "All right, Tommy, boy," he said.
"Have it your own way."

"You ought to be satisfied the way you can
shoot," said Tom, by way of reconciling Roscoe
to his leadership.

"All right, Tommy. Maybe you've got the
bump of locality. When we get past that little
arm of the woods just ahead we ought to see the
right light then, huh?"

"Spur is the right name for it, not arm" said
Tom. "You might as well say it right."

"The pleasure is mine," laughed Roscoe;
"Tommy, you're as good as a circus."

They made their way in a southeasterly direo

94 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

tion, following the edge of the woods, with the
open country to the north and east of them.
Presently they reached the uspur," as Tom called
it, which seemed to consist of a little "cape" of
woods, as one might say, sticking out eastward.
They could shorten their path a trifle by cutting
through here, and this they did, Roscoe (notwith-
standing Tom's stolid self-confidence) watching
anxiously for the light which this spur had prob-
ably concealed, and which would assure them that
they were heading southward toward the path
which led into Cantigny village.

Once, twice, in their passage through this little
clump of woods Tom paused, examining the trees
and ground, picking up small branches and look-
ing at their ends, and throwing them away again.

" Funny how those branches got broken off," he
said.

Roscoe answered with a touch of annoyance,
the first he had shown since their meeting in the
woods.

"I'm not worrying about those twigs," he said;
"I don't see that light and I think we're headed
wrong."

"They're not twigs," said Tom literally;

•

"they're branches, and they're broken off.'1

THE GUN PIT 95

"Any fool could tell the reason for that," said
Roscoe, rather scornfully. "It's the artillery fire."

Tom said nothing, but he did not accept Ros-
coe's theory. He believed that some one had
been through here before them and that the
branches had been broken off by human hands;
and but for the fact that Roscoe had let him
have his own way in the matter of direction he
would have suggested that they make a detour
around this woody spur. However, he contented
himself by saying in his impassive way, "I know
when branches are broken off."

"Well, what are we going to do now?" Roscoe
demanded, stopping short and speaking with un-
disguised impatience. "You can see far beyond
those trees now and you can see there's no light.
They'll have us nailed upon a couple of crosses
to-morrow. / don't intend to be tortured on ac-
count of the Boy Scouts of America."

He used the name as being synonymous with
bungling and silly notions and star-gazing, and
!it hit Tom in a dangerous spot. He answered
with a kind of proud independence which he sel-
dom showed.

"I didn't say there'd be a light. Just because
there's a house it doesn't mean there's got to be a

96 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

light. I said the light we saw was in the north,
and it's got nothing to do with the Boy Scouts.
You wouldn't let me point your rifle for you,
would you? They sent me to this sector 'cause I
don't get lost and I don't get rattled. You said
that about the Scouts just because you're mad.
I'm not hunting for any light. I'm going back to
Cantigny and I know where I'm at. You can
come if you want to or you can go and get caught
by the Germans if you want to. I went a hun-
dred miles through Germany and they didn't
catch me — 'cause I always know where I'm at."

He went on for a few steps, Roscoe, after the
first shock of surprise, following silently behind
him. He saw Tom stumble, struggle to regain his
balance, heard a crunching sound, and then, to
his consternation, saw him sink down and disap-
pear before his very eyes.

In the same instant he was aware of a figure
which was not Tom's scrambling up out of the
dark, leaf-covered hollow and of the muzzle of
a rifle pointed straight at him.

Evidently Tom Slade had not known "where
he was at" at all.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PRISONERS

APPARENTLY some of the enemy had not yet
withdrawn to the north, for in less than five sec-
onds Roscoe was surrounded by a group of Ger-
man soldiers, among whom towered a huge officer
with an eye so fierce and piercing that it was ap-
parent even in the half darkness. He sported a
moustache more aggressively terrible than that of
Kaiser Bill himself and his demeanor was such as
to make that of a roaring lion seem like a docile
lamb by comparison. An Iron Cross depended
from a heavy chain about his bull neck and his
portly breast was so covered with the junk of
rank and commemoration that it seemed like one
of those boards from which street hawkers sell
badges at a public celebration.

Poor Tom, who had been hauled out of the
hole, stood dogged and sullen in the clutch of a
Boche soldier, and Roscoe, even in his surprise at

9.8 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

this singular turn of affairs, bestowed a look of
withering scorn upon him.

"I knew those branches were broken off,"
Tom muttered, as if in answer. 'They're using
them for camouflage. It's got nothing to do
with the other thing about which way we were
going."

But Roscoe only looked at him with a sneer.

Wherever the wrong and right lay as to their
direction, they had run plunk into a machine-gun
nest and Roscoe Bent, with all his diabolical skill
of aim, could not afford his fine indulgence of
sneering, for as an active combatant, which Tom
was not, he should have known that these nests
were more likely to be found at the wood's edge
than anywhere else, where they could command
the open country. The little spur of woods af-
forded, indeed, an ideal spot for secreting a
machine gun, whence a clear range might be had
both north and south.

If Tom had not been a little afraid of Roscoe
he would have acted on the good scout warning
of the broken branches and made a detour in
time to escape this dreadful plight. And the vain
regret that he had not done so rankled in his
breast now. The pit was completely surrounded

PRISONERS 99

and almost covered with branches, so that no part
of the guns and their tripods which rose out of it
was discoverable, at least to Roscoe.

"Veil, you go home, huh?" the officer de-
manded, with a grim touch of humor.

Roscoe was about to answer, but Tom took
the words out of his mouth.

"We got lost and we got rattled," he said,
with a frank confession which surprised Roscoe;
"we thought we were headed south."

The sniper bestowed another angrily con-
temptuous look upon him, but Tom appeared not
to notice it.

'Veil, we rattle you some more — vat?" the
officer said, without very much meaning. His
voice was enough to rattle any captive, but Tom
was not easily disconcerted, and instead of cower-
ing under this martial ferocity and the scorning
looks of his friend, he glanced about him in his
frowning, lowering way as if the surroundings
interested him more than his captors. But he said
nothing.

"You English — no?" the officer demanded.

'We're Americans," said Roscoe, regaining his
self-possession.

"Ach! Diss iss good for you. If you arc-

43921B

100 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

English, ve kill you ! You have kamerads — *
vere?"

'There's only the two of us," said Roscoe.
Tom seemed willing enough to let his companion
do the talking, and indeed Roscoe, now that he
had recovered his poise, seemed altogether the
fitter of the two to be the spokesman. uWe got
rattled, as this kid says." "If we'd followed that
light we wouldn't have happened in on you. We
hope we don't intrude," he added sarcastically.

The officer glanced at the tiny light in the dis-
tance, then at one of the soldiers, then at another,
then poured forth a gutteral torrent at them all.
Then he peered suspiciously ino the darkness.

"For treachery, ve kill," he said.

"I told you there are only two of us," said Ros-
coe simply.

"Ach, two! Two millions, you mean! Vat?
Ach!" he added, with a deprecating wave of his
hands. "Vy not billions, huh?"

Roscoe gathered that he was sneering skep-
tically about the number of Americans reported
to be in France.

'Ve know just how many," the officer added;
"veil, vat you got, huh?"

At this two of the Boches proceeded to searcli

PRISONERS 101

the captives, neither of whom had anything of
value or importance about them, and handed the
booty to the officer.

'Vat is diss, huh?" he said, looking at a small
object in his hand.

Tom's answer nearly knocked Roscoe off his
feet.

'It's a compass," said he.

So Tom had had a compass with him all the
time they had been discussing which was the
right direction to take ! Why he had not brought
it out to prove the accuracy of his own conten-
tion Roscoe could not comprehend.

"A compass, huh. Vy you not use it?"

"Because I was sure I was right," said Tom.

"Always sure you are right, you Yankees!
Vat?"

"Nothing," said Tom.

The officer examined the trifling haul as well
as he could in the darkness, then began talking
in German to one of his men. And meanwhile
Tom watched him in evident suspense, and Ros-
coe, unmollified, cast at Tom a look of sneering
disgust for his bungling error — a look which
seemed to include the whole brotherhood of
scouts.

102 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

Finally the officer turned upon Roscoe with his
characteristic martial ferocity.

uHow long you in France?" he demanded.

"Oh, about a year or so."

"Vat ship you come on?"

"I don't know the name of it."

"You come to Havre, vat?"

"I didn't notice the port."

"Huh! You are not so — vide-avake, huh?"

"Absent-minded, yes," said Roscoe.

The officer paused, glaring at Roscoe, and
Tom could not help envying his friend's easy and
self-possessed air.

"You know the Texas Pioneer?" the officer
shot out in that short, imperious tone of demand
which is the only way in which a German knows
how to ask a question.

"Never met him," said Roscoe.

"A ship !" thundered the officer.

"Oh, a ship. No, I've never been introduced."

"She come to Havre — vat?"

'That'll be nice," said Roscoe.

'You never hear of dis ship, huh?"

"No, there are so many, you know."

"To bring billions, yes!" the officer said
ironically.

PRISONERS 103

"That's the idea."

Pause.

"You hear about more doctors coming — no?
Soon?"

"Sorry I can't oblige you," said Roscoe.

The officer paused a moment, glaring at him
and Tom felt very unimportant and insignificant.

"Veil, anyway, you haf good muscle, huh?"
the officer finally observed; then, turning to his
subordinates, he held forth in German until it ap-
peared to Tom that he and Roscoe were to carry
the machine gun to the enemy line.

To Tom, under whose sullen, lowering manner,
was a keenness of observation sometimes almost
uncanny, it seemed that these men were not the
regular crew which had been stationed here, but
had themselves somehow chanced upon the de-
serted nest in the course of their withdrawal from
the village.

For one thing, it seemed to him that this im-
perious officer was a personage of high rank, who
would not ordinarily have been stationed in one
of these machine gun pits. And for another
thing, there was something (he could not tell ex-
actly what) about the general demeanor of their
captors, their way of removing the gun and their

104 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

apparent unfamiliarity with the spot, which made
him think that they had stumbled into it in the
course of their wanderings just as he and Roscoe
had done. They talked in German and he could
not understand them, but he noticed particularly;
that the two who went into the pit to gather the
more valuable portion of the paraphernalia ap-
peared not to be familiar with the place, and he
thought that the officer inquired of them whether
there were two or more guns.

When he lifted his share of the burden, Roscoe
noticed how he watched the officer with a kind of
apprehension, almost terror, in his furtive glance,
and kept his eyes upon him as they started away
in the darkness.

Roscoe was in a mood to think ill of Tom,
whom he considered the bungling, stubborn author
of their predicament. It pleased him now to be-
lieve that Tom was afraid and losing his nerve.
He remembered that he had said they would be
crucified as a result of Tom's pin-headed error.
And he was rather glad to believe that Tom was
thinking of that now.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SHADES OF ARCHIBALD ARCHER

AFTER a minute the officer paused and con-
sulted with one of his men; then another was
summoned to the confab, the three of them re-
minding Tom of a newspaper picture he had seen
of the Kaiser standing in a field with two officers
and gazing fiercely at a map.

One of the soldiers waved a hand toward the
distance, while Tom watched sharply. And
Roscoe, who accepted their predicament with a
kind of reckless bravado, sneered slightly at
Tom's evident apprehension.

Then the officer produced something, holding
it in his hand while the others peered over his
shoulder. And Tom watched them with lowering
brows, breathing hurriedly. No one knew it, but
in that little pause Tom Slade lived a whole life
of nervous suspense. It was not, however, the

MS

106 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

nervousness and suspense which his friend thought.

Then, as if unable to control his impulse, he
moved slightly as though to start in the direction
which he and Roscoe had been following. It
was only a slight movement, made in obedience to
an overwhelming desire, and as if he would in-
cline his captors' thoughts in that direction.
Roscoe, who held his burden jointly with Tom,
felt this impatient impulse communicated to him
and he took it as a confession from Tom that he
had made the fatal error of mistaking their way
before. And he moved a trifle, too, in the direc-
tion where he knew the German lines had been
established, muttering scornfully at Tom, "You
know where you're headed for now, all right.
It's what I said right along."

UI admit I know," said Tom dully.

No doubt it was the compass which was the
main agent in deciding the officer as to their
route, but he and his men moved, even as Tom
did, as if to make an end of needless parleying.

As they tramped along, following the edge of
the wood, a tiny light appeared ahead of them,
far in the distance, like a volunteer beacon, and
Roscoe, turning, a trifle puzzled, tried to discover
the other light, which had now diminished to a

ARCHIBALD ARCHER 107

mere speck. Now and again the officer paused
and glanced at that trifling prize of war, Tom's
little glassless, tin-encased compass. But Tom
Slade of Temple Camp, Scout of the Circle and
the Five Points, winner of the Acorn and the
Indianhead, looked up from time to time at the
quiet, trustful stars.

So they made their way along, following a
fairly straight course, and verging away from the
wood's edge, heading toward the distant light.
Two of the Germans went ahead with fixed bay-
onets, scouring the underbrush, and the others
escorted Tom and Roscoe, who carried all of the
burden.

The officer strode midway between the advance
guard and the escorting party, pausing now and
again as if to make sure of his ground and oc-
casionally consulting the compass. Once he
looked up at the sky and then Tom fairly trem-
bled. He might have saved himself this worry,
however, for Herr Officer recognized no friends
nor allies in that peaceful, gold-studded heaven.

''It was an unlucky day for me I ran into you
over here," Roscoe muttered, yielding to his very
worst mood.

Tom said nothing.

108 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER
"We won't even have the satisfaction of dying

in action now.'

No answer.

"After almost a year of watching my step 1
come to this just because I took your word. Be-
lieve mey I deserve to hang. I don't even get on
the casualty list, on account of you. You see what
we're both up against now, through that bump
of locality you're so proud of. Edwards' Grove*
is where you belong. I'm not blaming youv
though — I'm blaming myself for listening to a
dispatch kid!"

The Germans, not understanding, paid no at-
tention, and Roscoe went on, reminding Tom of
the old, flippant, cheaply cynical Roscoe, who had
stolen his employer's time to smoke cigarettes in
the Temple Camp office, trying to arouse the
stenographer's mirth by ridiculing the Boy
Scouts.

''I'm not thinking about what you're saying,
he said bluntly, after a few minutes. "I'm re-
membering how you saved my life and named
your gun after me."

"Hey, Fritzie, have they got any Boy Scouts

* The woods near Bridgeboro, in America, where Tom an4
the Scouts had hiked and camped.

ARCHIBALD ARCHER 109

in Germany?" Roscoe asked, ignoring Tom, but
speaking apparently at him. The nearest Boche
gave a glowering look at the word Fritzie, but
otherwise paid no attention.

"We were on our way to German headquar-
ters, anyway," Roscoe added, addressing himself
indifferently to the soldiers, "but we're glad of
your company. The more, the merrier. Young
Daniel Boone here was leading the way."

The Germans, of course, did not understand,
but Tom felt ashamed of his companion's cynical
bravado. The insults to himself he did not mind.
His thoughts were fixed on something else.

On they went, into a marshy area where Tom
looked more apprehensively at the officer than
before, as if he feared the character of the ground
might arouse the suspicion of his captors. But
they passed through here without pause or ques-
tion and soon were near enough to the flickering
light to see that it burned in a house.

Again Roscoe looked perplexedly behind him,
but the light there was not visible at all now.
Again the officer stopped and, as Tom watched
him fearfully, he glanced about and then looked
again at the compass.

For one brief moment the huge figure stood

110 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

there, outlined in the darkness as if doubting.
And Tom, looking impassive and dogged, held
his breath in an agony of suspense.

It was nothing and they moved on again, Ros-
coe, in complete repudiation of his better self, in-
dulging his sullen anger and making Tom and
the Scouts (as if they had anything to do with
it) the victims of his cutting shafts.

And still again the big, medal-bespangled
officer paused to look at the compass, glanced, sus-
piciously, Tom thought, at the faint shadow of a
road ahead of them, and moved on, his medals
clanging and chinking in unison with his martial
stride.

And Tom Slade of Temple Camp, Scout of the
Circle and the Five Points, winner of the Acorn
and the Indianhead, glanced up from time to time
at the quiet, trustful stars.

If he thought of any human being then, it was
not of Roscoe Bent (not this Roscoe Bent, in
any event), but of a certain young friend far
away, he did not know where. And he thanked
Archibald Archer, vandal though he was, for
one idle, foolish thing that he had done.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE BIG COUP

No one knew, no one ever would know, of the
anxiety and suspense which Tom Slade experienced
in that fateful march through the country above
Cantigny. Every uncertain pause of that huge
officer, and every half inquiring turn of his head
sent a shock of chill misgiving through poor Tom
and he trudged along under the weight of his
burden, hearing the flippant and bitter jibes of
Roscoe as if in a trance.

At last, having crossed a large field, they fell
into a well-worn path, and here Tom experienced
his moment of keenest anxiety, for the officer
paused as if in momentary recognition of the
spot. For a second he seemed a bit perplexed,
then strode on. Still again he paused within a
few yards of the little house where the light had
appeared.

But it was too late. About this house a dozen
or more figures moved in the darkness. Their
style of dress was not distinguishable, but Tom

Slade called aloud to them,

in

112 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"Here's some prisoners we brought you back."

In an instant they were surrounded by Ameri-
cans and Tom thought that his native tongue had
never sounded so good before.

"Hello, Snipy," some one said.

But Roscoe Bent was too astonished to answer.
In a kind of trance he saw the big Prussian officer
start back, heard him utter some terrific German
expletive, beheld the others of the party herded
together, and was aware of the young American
captain giving orders. In a daze he looked at
Tom's stolid face, then at the Prussian officer,
who seemed too stunned to say anything after his
first startled outburst. He saw two boys in khaki
approaching with lanterns and in the dim light of
these he could distinguish a dozen or so khaki-
clad figures perched along a fence.

"Where are we at, anyway?" he finally man-
aged to ask.

'Just inside the village," one of the Americans
answered.

"What village?"

"Coney Island on the subway," one of the
boys on the fence called.

"Cantigny," some one nearer to him said.
"You made a good haul."

THE BIG COUP 113

"Well— I'll— be " Roscoe began.

Tom Slade said nothing. Like a trusty pilot
leaving his ship he strolled over and vaulted up
on the fence beside the boys who, having taken
the village, were now making themselves com-
fortable in it. His first question showed his
thoughtfulness.

"Is the brook water all right?"

"Sure. Thirsty?"

"No, I only wanted to make sure it was all
right. There were some big hogsheads of poison
up in the woods where the brook starts and the
other feller killed three Germans who tried to
empty them in the stream. By mistake he shot a
hole in one of the hogsheads and I thought
maybe some of the stuff got into the water. But
I guess it didn't."

It was characteristic of Tom that he did not
mention his own part in the business.

"I drank about a quart of it around noontime,"
said a young sergeant, "and I'm here yet."

"It's good and cool," observed another.

"What's the matter with Snipy, anyway?" a
private asked, laughing. "Somebody been spin-
ning him around?"

114 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"He just got mixed up, kind of, that's all,"
Tom said.

That was all.

There was much excitement in and about the
little cottage on the edge of the village. Up the
narrow path, from headquarters below, came
other Americans, officers as Tom could see, who
disappeared inside the house. Presently, the
German prisoners, all except the big officer, came
out, sullen in captivity, poor losers as Germans
always are, and marched away toward the centre
of the village, under escort.

"They thought they were taking us to the Ger-
man lines," said Tom simply.

Roscoe, having recovered somewhat from his
surprise and feeling deeply chagrined, walked
over and stood in front of Tom.

"Why didn't you show me that compass,
Tom?" he asked.

"Because it was wrong, just like you were,"
Tom answered frankly, but without any trace of
resentment. "If I'd showed it to you you'd
have thought it proved you were right. It was
marked, crazy like, by that feller I told you
about. I knew all the time we were coming to
Cantigny."

THE BIG COUP 115

There was a moment of silence, then Roscoe,
his voice full of feeling, said simply,

"Tom Slade, you're a wonder."

"Hear that, Paul Revere ?" one of the soldiers
said jokingly. "Praise from the Jersey Snipe
means something."

"No, it don't either," Roscoe muttered in self-
distrust. "You've saved me from a Hun prison
camp and while you were doing it you had to
listen to me — Gee! I feel like kicking myself," he
broke off.

"I ain't blaming you," said Tom, in his ex-
pressionless way. 'If I'd had my way we'd have
made a detour when I saw those broken branches,
'cause I knew it meant people were there, and
then we wouldn't have got those fellers as
prisoners, at all. So they got to thank you more
than me."

This was queer reasoning, indeed, but it was
Tom Slade all over.

"Me!" said Roscoe, "that's the limit. Tom,
you're the same old hickory nut. Forgive me,
old man, if you can."

"I don't have to," said Tom.

Roscoe stood there staring at him, thrilled with
honest admiration and stung by humiliation.

'11.6 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

And as the little group, augmented by other
soldiers who strolled over to hear of this extra-
ordinary affair first hand, grew into something of
a crowd, Tom, alias Thatchy, alias Paul Revere,
alias Towhead, sat upon the fence, answering
questions and telling of his great coup with a
dull unconcern which left them all gaping.

"As soon as I made up my mind they didn't
belong there," he said, "I decided they weren't
sure of their own way, kind of. If the big man.
hadn't taken the compass away from me, I'd
have given it to him anyway. It had the N
changed into an S and the S into an N. I think
he kind of thought the other way was right, but
when he saw the compass, that settled him. All
the time I was looking at the Big Dipper, 'cause
I knew nobody ever tampered with that. I
noticed he never even looked up, but once, and
then I was scared. When we got to the marsh,
I was scared, too, 'cause I thought maybe he'd
know about the low land being south of the
woods. I was scared all the time, as you might
say, but mostly when he turned his head and
seemed kind of uncertain — like. It ain't so mucK
any credit to me as it is to Archer — the feller
that changed the letters. Anyway, I ain't mad,

THE BIG COUP 117

that's sure/' he added, evidently intending this for
Roscoe. "Everybody gets mistaken sometimes."

"You're one bully old trump, Tom," said Ros-
coe shamefacedly.

"So now you see how it was," Tom concluded.
"I couldn't get rattled as long as I could see the
Big Dipper up there in the sky."

For a few moments there was silence, save for
the low whistling of one of the soldiers.

'You're all right, kiddo," he broke off to say.

Then one of the others turned suddenly, giving
Tom a cordial rap on the shoulder which almost
made him lose his balance. 'Well, as long as
we've got the Big Dipper," said he, "and as long
as the water's pure, what d'you say we all go and
have a drink — in honor of Paul Revere?"

So it was that presently Tom and Roscoe found
themselves sitting alone upon the fence in the
darkness. Neither spoke. In the distance they
**ould hear the muffled boom of some isolated
field-piece, belching forth its challenge in the night.
High overhead there was a whirring, buzzing
sound as a shadow glided through the sky where
the stars shone peacefully. A company of boys in
khaki, carrying intrenching implements, passed by,
greeting them cheerily as they trudged back from

118 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

doing their turn in digging the new trench line
which would embrace Cantlgny.

Cantigny !

"I'm glad we took the towa, that's one sure
thing," Tom said.

"It's the first good whack weVe given them,"
agreed Roscoe.

Again there was silence. In the little house
across the road a light burned. Little did Tom
Slade know what was going on there, and what
it would mean to him. And still the American
boys guarding this approach down into the town,
moved to and fro, to and fro, in the darkness.

"Tom," said Roscoe, "I was a fool again, just
like I was before, back home in America. Will
you try to forget it, old man?" he added.

"There ain't anything to forget," said Tom,
"I got to be thankful I found you; that's the
only thing I'm thinking about and — and — that we
didn't let the Germans get us. If you like a
feller you don't mind about what he says. Do
you think I forget you named that rifle after me?
Just because — because you didn't know about
trusting to the stars, — I wouldn't be mad at
you "

Roscoe did not answer.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

TOM IS QUESTIONED

WHEN it became known in the captured village
(as it did immediately) that the tall prisoner
whom Tom Slade had brought in, was none other
than the famous Major Johann Slauberstrauffn
Ton Piffinhoeffer, excitement ran high in the
neighborhood, and the towheaded young dispatch-
rider from the Toul sector was hardly less of a
celebrity than the terrible Prussian himself. ;<Paul
Revere" and his compass became the subjects of
much mirth, touched, as usual, with a kind of
bantering evidence of genuine liking.

In face of all this, Tom bestowed all the credit
on Roscoe (it would be hard to say why), and
on Archibald Archer and the Big Dipper.

"Now that we've got the Big Dipper with us
we ought to be able to push right through to
Berlin," observed one young corporal. "They
say Edison's got some new kind of a wrinkle up
his sleeve, but believe me, if he's got anything to
beat Paul Revere's compass, he's a winner!"

119

320 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"Old Piff nearly threw a fit, I heard, when he
found out that he was captured by a kid in the
messenger service," another added.

"They may pull a big stroke with Mars, the
god of war," still another said, "but we've got the
Big Dipper on our side."

Indeed, some of them nicknamed Tom the Big
Dipper, but he did not mind for, as he said
soberly, he had "always liked the Big Dipper, any*
way."

As the next day passed the importance of
Tom's coup became known among the troops
stationed in the village and was the prime topic
with those who were digging the new trench line
northeast of the town. Indeed, aside from the
particular reasons which were presently to ap»
pear, the capture of Major von Piffinhoeffer was
a "stunt" of the first order which proved par-
ticularly humiliating to German dignity. That
he should have been captured at all was remark-
able. That he should have been hoodwinked and
brought in by a young dispatch-rider was a matter
of crushing mortification to him, and must have
been no less so to the German high command.

Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had first sug-
gested the use of the poisoned bandage in the

TOM IS QUESTIONED 121

treatment of English prisoners' wounds? Who
but Major von Piffinhoeffer had devised the ver$
scheme of contaminating streams, which Tom and
Roscoe had discovered? Who but Major von
Piffinhoeffer had invented the famous "circle
code" which had so long puzzled and baffled
Uncle Sam's Secret Service agents? Who but
Major von Piffinhoeffer had first suggested put-
ting cholera germs in rifle bullets, and tuber-
culosis germs in American cigarettes?

A soldier of the highest distinction was Major
von Piffinhoeffer, of Heidelberg University,
whose decorative junk had come direct from the
grateful junkers, and whose famous eight-volume
work on "Principles of Modern Torture" was a
text-book in the realm. A warrior of mettle was
Major von Piffinhoeffer, who deserved a more
glorious fate than to be captured by an American
dispatch-rider !

But Tom Slade was not vain and it is doubt-
ful if his stolid face, crowned by his shock of re-
bellious hair, would have shown the slightest
symptom of excitement if he had captured Hin-
denburg, or the Kaiser himself.

In the morning he rode down to Chepoix with
some dispatches and in the afternoon to St. Just-

122 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

cn-Chaussee. He was kept busy all day. Wheft
he returned to Cantigny, a little before dark, he
was told to remain at headquarters, and for
a while he feared that he was going to be court-
martialled for overstaying his leave.

When he was at last admitted into the pres-
ence of the commanding officer, he shifted from
one foot to the other, feeling ill at ease as he
always did in the presence of officialdom. The
officer sat at a heavy table which had evidently
been the kitchen table of the French peasant peo-
ple who had originally occupied the poor cottage.
Signs of petty German devastation were all about
the humble, low-ceiled place, and they seemed to
evidence a more loathsome brutality even than
did the blighted country which Tom had ridden
through.

Apparently everything which could show an
arrogant contempt of the simple family life which
had reigned there had been done. There was a
kind of childish spitefulness in the sword thrusts
through the few pictures which hung on the walls.
The German genius for destruction and wanton
vandalism was evident in broken knick-knacks and
mottoes of hate and bloody vengeance scrawled
upon floor and wall.

TOM IS QUESTIONED 123

It did Tom's heart good to see the resolute,
capable American officers sitting there attending
to their business in quiet disregard of all these
silly, vulgar signs of impotent hate and baffled
power.

"When you first met these Germans," the
officer asked, "did the big fellow have anything
to say?"

"He asked us some questions," said Tom.

"Yes? Now what did he ask you?" the officer
encouraged, as he reached out and took a couple
of papers pinned together, which lay among
others on the table.

"He seemed to be interested in transports,
kind of, and the number of Americans there are
here."

"Hmm. Did he mention any particular ship
— do you remember?" the officer asked, glancing
at the paper.

"Yes, he did. Texas Pioneer. I don't remem-
ber whether it was Texan or Texas."

"Oh, yes," said the officer.

'We didn't tell him anything," said Tom.

"No, of course not."

The officer sat whistling for a few seconds, and
scrutinizing the papers.

324 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"Do you remember the color of the officer's
eyes?" he suddenly asked.

"It was only in the dark we saw him."

"Yes, surely. So you didn't get a very good
look at him."

"I saw he had a nose shaped like a carrot,
kind of," said Tom ingenuously.

Both of the officers smiled.

"I mean the big end of it," said Tom soberly.

The two men glanced at each other and
laughed outright. Tom did not quite appreciate
what they were laughing at but it encouraged him
to greater boldness, and shifting from one foot to
the other, he said,

"The thing I noticed specially was how his
mouth went sideways when he talked, so one side
of it seemed to slant the same as his moustache,
like, and the other didn't."

The officers smiled at each other again, but the
one quizzing Tom looked at him shrewdly and
seemed interested.

"I mean the two ends of his moustache that
stuck up like the Kaiser's "

"Oh, yes."

"I mean they didn't slant the same when he
talked. One was crooked."

TOM IS QUESTIONED 125

Again the officers smiled and the one who had
been speaking said thoughtfully,

"I see."

Tom shifted back to his other foot while the
officer seemed to ruminate.

"He had a breed mark, too," Tom volun-
teered.

"A what?"

"Breed mark — it's different from a species
mark," he added naively.

The officer looked at him rather curiously.
"And what do you call a breed mark?" he asked.

Tom looked at the other man who seemed also
to be watching him closely. He shifted from one
foot to the other and said,

"It's a scout sign. A man named Jeb Rush-
more told me about it. All trappers know about
it. It was his ear, how it stuck out, like."

He shifted to the other foot.

"Yes, go on."

"Nothing, only that's what a breed sign is. If
Jeb Rushmore saw a bear and afterwards way
off he saw another bear he could tell if the
first bear was its grandmother — most always he
could.

"Hmm. I see," said the officer, plainly inter-

126 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

ested and watching Tom curiously. "And that's
what a breed sign is, eh?'1

"Yes, sir. Eyes ain't breed signs, but ears are.
Feet are, too, and different ways of walking are,
but ears are the best of all — that's one sure
thing."

"And you mean that relationships can be de-
termined by these breed signs?"

"I don't mean people just looking like each
other," Tom explained, 'cause any way animals
don't look like each other in the face. But you
got to go by breed signs. Knuckles are good
signs, too."

"Well, well," said the officer, "that's very fine,
and news to me."

"Maybe you were never a scout," said Tom
naively.

"So that if you saw your Prussian major's
brother or son somewhere, where you had reason
to think he would be, you'd know him — you'd
recognize him?"

Tom hesitated and shifted again. It was get-
ting pretty deep for him.

CHAPTER TWENTY,

I

THE MAJOR'S PAPERS

IT was perfectly evident that the officer's pur-
pose in sending for Tom, whatever that was, was
considerably affected by the boy's own remarks,
and he now, after pondering a few moments,
handed Tom the two papers which he had been
holding.

"Just glance that over and then I'll talk to
you," he said.

Tom felt very important, indeed, and some-
what perturbed as well, for though he had car-
ried many dispatches it had never been his lot
to know their purport.

"If you know the importance and seriousness
of what I am thinking of letting you do," the
officer said, "perhaps it will help you to be very
careful and thorough."

"Yes, sir," said Tom, awkwardly.

"All right, just glance that over."

The two papers were clipped together, and as
Tom looked at the one on top he saw that it was

127

128 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

soiled and creased and written in German. The
other was evidently a translation of it. It seemed
to be a letter the first part of which was missing,
and this is what Tom read:

"but, as you say, everything for the Father-
land. If you receive this let them know that
I'll have my arms crossed and to be careful
before they shoot. If you don't get this I'll
just have to take my chance. The other way
isn't worth trying. As for the code key,
that will be safe enough — they'll never find

it. If it wasn't for the - — English

service (worn and undecipherable)

• as far as that's concerned. As far

as I can ascertain we'll go on the T. P.
There was some inquiry about my close re-
lationship to you, but nothing serious. All
you have to do is cheer when they play the
S.S.B. over here. It isn't known if Schmitter
had the key to this when they caught him
because he died on Ellis Island. But it's
being abandoned to be on the safe side. I
have notice from H. not to use it after
sending this letter. If we can get the new
one in your hands before (text unde-
cipherable) in time so it can be used

through Mexico.

"I'll have much information to communi-
cate verbally in T. and A. matters, but will

bring nothing in form but key

and credentials. The idea is L.'s — you re-

THE MAJOR'S PAPERS 129

member him at Heidelberg, I dare say. I
brought him back once for holiday. Met
him through Handel, the fellow who was
troubled with cataract. V. has furnished
funds. So don't fail to have them watch out.

"To the day,

"A. P."

"So you see some one is probably coming over
on the Texas Pioneer" said the officer, as he took
the papers from bewildered Tom, uand we'd like
to get hold of that fellow. The only trouble is
we don't know who he is."

It was quite half a minute before Tom could
get a grip on himself, so dark and mysterious had
seemed this extraordinary communication. And
it was not until afterward, when he was alone
and not handicapped by his present embarrass-
ment, that certain puzzling things about it be-
came clear to him. At present he depended
wholly upon what his superior told him and
thought of nothing else.

"That was taken from your tall friend," said
Ithe officer, "and it means, if it means anything,
that somebody or other closely related to him is
coming over to France on the Texas Pioneer.
From his mention of the name to you I take it
that is what T. P. means.

330 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

"Now, my boy, we want to get hold of this
fellow — he's a spy. Apparently, he won't have
anything incriminating about him. My impres-
sion is that he's in the army and hopes to get him-
self captured by his friends. Yet he may desert
and take a chance of getting into Germany
through Holland. About the only clew there is, is
the intimation that he's related to the prisoner.
He may look like him. We've been trying to g@£
in communication with Dieppe, where this trans-
port is expected to dock to-morrow, but the wires
seem to be shot into a tangle again.

"Do you think you could make Dieppe before
morning — eighty to ninety miles?"

"Yes, sir. The first twenty or so will be bad
on account of shell holes. I heard they threw as
far as Forges."

"Hmm," said the officer, drumming with his
fingers. "We'll leave all that to you. The thing
is to get there before morning."

"I know they never let anybody ashore be-
fore daylight," said Tom, "because I worked on
a transport."

"Very well. Now we'll see if the general and
others hereabouts have been overrating you.
.You've two things to do. One is to get to Dieppe

THE MAJOR'S PAPERS 131

before to-morrow morning. That's imperative.
The other is to assist the authorities there to
identify the writer of this letter if you can. Of
course, you'll not concern yourself with anything
else in the letter. I let you read it partly because
of your very commendable bringing in of this im-
portant captive and partly because I want you to
know how serious and important are the matters
involved. I was rather impressed with what you
said about — er — breed marks."

"Yes, sir."

"And I believe you're thoughtful and careful.
iYouVe ridden by night a good deal, I under-
stand."

"Yes, sir."

"So. Now you are to ride at once to Breteuil,
a little east of here, where they're holding this
prisoner. You'll deliver a note I shall give you
to Colonel Wallace, and he'll see to it that you
have a look at the man, in a sufficiently good
light. Don't be afraid to observe him closely.
And whatever acuteness you may have in this
way, let your country have the benefit of it."

"Yes, sir."

"It may be that some striking likeness will
enable you to recognize this stranger. Possibly

132 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

your special knowledge will be helpful. In any
case, when you reach Dieppe, present these papers,
with the letter which I shall give you, to the
quartermaster there, and he will turn you over to
the Secret Service men. Do whatever they tell
you and help them in every way you can. I shall
mention that youVe seen the prisoner and ob-
served him closely. They may have means of
discovery and identification which I know nothing
of, but don't be afraid to offer your help. Too
much won't be expected of you in that way, but
it's imperative that you reach Dieppe before
morning. The roads are pretty bad, I know
that. Think you can do it?"

"What you got to do, you can do," said Tom
simply.

It was a favorite saying of the same Jeb Rush-
more, scout and woodsman, who had told Tom
about breed marks, and how they differed from*
mere points of resemblance. And it made him
think about Jeb Rushmore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE OF PAUL REVERE

SWIFTLY and silently along the dark road sped
the dispatch-rider who had come out of the East,
from the far-off Toul sector, for service as re-
quired. All the way across bleeding, devastated
France he had travelled, and having paused, as
it were, to help in the little job at Cantigny, he
was now speeding through the darkness toward
the coast with as important a message as he had
ever carried.

A little while before, as time is reckoned, he
had been a Boy Scout in America and had thought
it was something to hike from New York to the
Catskills. Since then, he had been on a tor-
pedoed transport, had been carried in a submarine
to Germany, had escaped through that war-mad
land and made his way to France, whose scarred
and disordered territory he had crossed almost
from one end to the other, and was now headed

233

134 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

for almost the very point where he had first
landed. Yet he was only eighteen, and no one
whom he met seemed to think that his experiences
had been remarkable. For in a world where all
are having extraordinary experiences, those of one
particular person are hardly matter for comment.

At Breteuil Tom had another look at "Major
Piff," who bent his terrible, scornful gaze upon
him, making poor Tom feel like an insignificant
worm. But the imperious Prussian's stare netted
him not half so much in the matter of valuable
data as Tom derived from his rather timid
scrutiny. Yet he would almost have preferred to
face the muzzle of a field-piece rather than wither
beneath that arrogant, contemptuous glare.

It was close on to midnight when he reached
Hardivillers, passing beyond the point of the
Huns' farthest advance, and sped along the
straight road for Marseille-en-Froissy, wrhere he
was to leave a relay packet for Paris. From
there he intended to run down to Gournay and
then northwest along the highway to the coast.
He thought he had plenty of time.

At Gournay they told him that some Ameri-
can engineers were repairing the bridge at
Saumont, which had been damaged by floods, but

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

that he might gain the north road to the coast
by going back as far as Songeons and following
the path along the upper Therain River, which
would take him to Aumale, and bring him into
the Neufchatel road.

He lost perhaps two hours in doing this, partly
by reason of the extra distance and partly by
reason of the muddy, and in some places sub-
merged, path along the Therain. The stream,
ordinarily hardly more than a creek, was so
swollen that he had to run his machine through

D

a veritable swamp in places, and anything ap-
proaching speed was out of the question. So
difficult was his progress, what with running off
the flooded road and into the stream bed, and
also from his wheels sticking in the mud, that he
began to fear that he was losing too much time
in this discouraging business.

But there was nothing to do but go forward,
and he struggled on, sometimes wheeling his
machine, sometimes riding it, until at last it sank
almost wheel deep in muddy water and he had to
lose another half hour in cleaning out his car-
bureter. He feared that it might give trouble
even then, but the machine labored along when
the mud was not too deep, and at last, after al-

136 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

most superhuman effort, he and Uncle Sam
emerged, dirty and dripping, out of a region
where he could almost have made as good
progress with a boat, into Aumale, where he
stopped long enough to clean the grit out of his
engine parts.

It was now nearly four o'clock in the morning,
and his instructions were to reach Dieppe not
later than five. He knew, from his own ex-
perience, that transports always discharge their
thronging human cargoes early in the morning^
and that every minute after five o'clock would in-
crease the likelihood of his finding the soldiers
already gone ashore and separated for the jour-
iieys to their various destinations. To reach
Dieppe after the departure of the soldiers was
simply unthinkable to Tom. Whatever excuse
there might have been to the authorities for his
failure, that also he could not allow to enter his
thoughts. He had been trusted to do something
and he was going to do it.

Perhaps it was this dogged resolve which de-
terred him from doing something which he had
thought of doing; that is, acquainting the authori-
ties at Aumale with his plight and letting them
wire on to Dieppe. Surely the wires between

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE 137

rAumale and the coast must be working, but sup-
pose

Suppose the Germans should demolish those
wires with a random shot from some great gun
such as the monster which had bombarded Paris
at a distance of seventy miles. Such a random
shot might demolish Tom Slade, too, but he did
not think of that. What he thought of chiefly
was the inglorious role he would play if, after
shifting his responsibility, he should go riding
into Dieppe only to find that the faithful dots
and dashes had done his work for him. Then
again, suppose the wires should be tapped — there
were spies everywhere, he knew that.

Whatever might have been the part of wisdom
and caution, he was well past Aumale before he
allowed himself to realize that he was taking
rather a big chance. If there were floods in one
place there might be floods in another, but

He banished the thought from his mind. Tom
Slade, motorcycle dispatch-bearer, had always re-
garded the villages he rushed through with a kind
of patronizing condescension. His business had
always been between some headquarters or other
and some point of destination, and between these
points he had no interest. He and Uncle Sam

t38 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

had a little pride in these matters. French ch:i-
dren with clattering wooden shoes had clustered
about him when he paused, old wives had called,
"Vive VAmerique!'1 from windows and, like the
post-boy of old, he had enjoyed the prestige
which was his. Should he, Tom Slade, surrender
or ask for help in one of these mere incidental
places along his line of travel?

What you got to do, you do, he had said, and
you cannot do it by going half way and then
letting some one else do the rest. He had read
the Message to Garcia (as what scout has not),
and did that bully messenger — whatever his name
was — turn back because the Cuban jungle was too
much for him? He delivered the message to
Garcia, that was the point. There were swamps,
and dank, tangled, poisonous vines, and venomous
snakes, and the sickening breath of fever. But
he delivered the message to Garcia.

It was sixty miles, Tom knew, from Aumale
to Dieppe by the road. And he must reach
Dieppe not later than five o'clock. The road
was a good road, if it held nothing unexpected.
The map showed it to be a good road, and as
far west as this there was small danger from
shell holes.

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE .139

Fifty miles, and one hour !

Swiftly along the dark road sped the dispatch-
rider who had come from the far-off blue hills
of Alsace across the war-scorched area of north-
ern France into the din and fire and stenching
suffocation and red-running streams of Picardy
for service as required. Past St. Prey he rushed;
past Thiueloy, and into Mortemer, and on to the
hilly region where the Eualine flows between its
hilly banks. He was in and out of La Tois in
half a minute.

When he passed through Neufchatel several
poilus, lounging at the station, hailed him cheerily
in French, but he paid no heed, and they stood
gaping, seeing his bent form and head thrust for-
ward with its shock of tow hair flying all about.

Twenty miles, and half an hour!

Through St. Authon he sped, raising a cloud
of dust, his keen eyes rivetted upon the road
ahead, and down into the valley where a tributary
©f the Bethune winds its troubled way — past Le
Farge, past tiny, picturesque Loix, into an area of
lowland where an isolated cottage seemed like a
lonely spectre of the night as he passed, on
through Mernoy to the crossing at Chabris, and
then

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"UNCLE SAM"

TOM SLADE stood looking with consternation
at the scene before him. His trusty motorcycle
which had borne him so far stood beside him,
and as he steadied it, it seemed as if this mute
Companion and co-patriot which he had come to
love, were sharing his utter dismay. Almost at
his very feet rushed a boisterous torrent, melting
the packed earth of the road like wax in a
tropic sunshine, and carrying its devastating work
of erosion to the very spot where he stood.

In a kind of cold despair, he stooped, reached
for a board which lay near, and retreating a
little, stood upon it, watching the surging water
in its heedless career. This one board was all
that was left of the bridge over which Tom
Slade and Uncle Sam were to have rushed in their
race with the dawn. Already the first glimmer-
ing of gray was discernible in the sky behind him,

and Tom looked at Uncle Sam as if for council

no

"UNCLE SAM" 141

in his dilemma. The dawn would not require any
bridge to get across.

"We're checked in our grand drive, kind of,"
he said, with a pathetic disappointment which his
odd way of putting it did not disguise. "We're
checked, that's all, just like the Germans were —
kind of."

He knelt and let down the rest of his machine
so that it might stand unaided, as if he would be
considerate of those mud-covered, weary wheels.

And meanwhile the minutes passed.

"Anyway, you did your part," he muttered.
!And then, "If you only could swim."

It was evident that the recent rains had
swollen the stream which ordinarily flowed in the
narrow bed between slanting shores so that the
rushing water filled the whole space between the
declivities and was even flooding the two ends of
road which had been connected by a bridge. An
old ramshackle house, which Tom thought might
once have been a boathouse, stood near, the water
'lapping its underpinning. Close by it was a
buoyed mooring float six or eight feet square,
bobbing in the rushing water. One of the four
air-tight barrels which supported it had caught ia
the mud and kept the buoyant, raft-like platform

142 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

from being carried downstream in the rush of
water.

Holding his flashlight to his watch Tom saw
that it was nearly fifteen minutes past four and
he believed that about forty miles of road lay ahead
of him. Slowly, silently, the first pale tint of
gray in the sky behind him took on a more
substantial hue, revealing the gaunt, black out-
lines of trees and painting the sun-dried,
ragged shingles on the little house a dull silvery
color.

"Anyway, you stood by me and it ain't your
fault," Tom muttered disconsolately. He turned
the handle bar this way and that, so that Uncle
Sam's one big eye peered uncannily across the
flooded stream and flickered up the road upon the
other side, which wound up the hillside and away
into the country beyond. The big, peering eye
seemed to look longingly upon that road.

Then Tom was seized with a kind of frantic
rebellion against fate — the same futile passion
which causes a convict to wrench madly at the
bars of his cell. The glimpse of that illuminated
stretch of road across the flooded stream drove
him to distraction. Baffled, powerless, his wonted
stolidness left him, and he cast his eyes here and

"UNCLE SAM" 143

there with a sort of challenge born of despair and
desperation.

Slowly, gently, the hazy dawn stole over the
sky and the roof of dried and ragged shingles
seemed as if it were covered with gray dust.
Presently the light would flicker upon those black,
mad waters and laugh at Tom from the other
side.

And meanwhile the minutes passed.

He believed that he could swim the torrent and
make a landing even though the rush of water
carried him somewhat downstream. But what
about Uncle Sam? He turned off the search-
light and still Uncle Sam was clearly visible now,
standing, waiting. He could count the spokes in
the wheels.

The spokes in the wheels — the spokes. With
a sudden inspiration born of despair, Tom looked
at that low, shingled roof. He could see it fairly
well now. The gray dawn had almost caught up
with him.

And meanwhile the minutes passed!

In a frantic burst of energy he took a running
jump, caught the edge of the roof and swung
himself upon it. In the thin haze his form was
outlined there, his shock of light hair jerking this

144 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

way and that, as he tore off one shingle after
another, and threw them to the ground. He was
racing now, as he had not raced before, and
there was upon his square, homely face that look
of uncompromising resolution which the soldier
wears as he goes over the top with his bayonet
fixed.

Leaping to the ground again he gathered up
some half a dozen shingles, selecting them with
as much care as his desperate haste would permit.
Then he hurriedly opened the leather tool case
on his machine and tumbled the contents about
until he found the roll of insulated wire which
he always carried.

His next work was to split one of the shingles
over his knee so that he had a strip of wood about
two inches wide. It took him but so many sec-
onds to jab four or five holes through this, and
adjusting it between two slopes of the power
wheel so that it stood crossways and was re-
enforced by the spokes themselves, he proceeded
to bind it in place with the wire. Then he
moved the wheel gently around, and found that
the projecting edge of wooden strip knocked
against the mud-guard. Hesitating not a second
pulled and bent and twisted the mud-guardf

"UNCLE SAM" 145

wrenching it off. The wheel revolved freely now.
The spokes were beginning to shine in the
brightening light.

And meanwhile the seconds passed!

It was the work of hardly a minute to bind
three other narrow strips of shingle among the
spokes so that they stood more or less crossways.
There was no time to place and fasten more, but
these, at equal intervals, forming a sort of cross
within the wheel, were quite sufficient, Tom
thought, for his purpose. It was necessary to
shave the edges of the shingles somewhat, after
they were in place, so that they would not chafe
against the axle-bars. But this was also the hur-
ried work of a few seconds, and then Torn
moved his machine to the old mooring float and
lifted it upon the bobbing platform.

He must work with the feverish speed of des-
peration for the float was held by no better anchor
than one of its supporting barrels embedded in
the mud. If he placed his weight or that of
Uncle Sam upon the side of the float already in
the water the weight would probably release the
mud-held barrel and the float, with himself and
Uncle Sam upon it, would be carried willy-nilly
upon the impetuous waters.

146 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER '

And meanwhile How plainly he could dis-
tinguish the trees now, and the pale stars steal-
ing away into the obscurity of the brightening
heavens.

With all the strength that he could muster he
wrenched a board from the centre of the plat-
form, and moving his arm about in the opening
felt the rushing water beneath.

The buoyancy of the air-tight barrels, one of
which was lodged under each corner of the float,
was such that with Tom and his machine upon
the planks the whole platform would float six or
eight inches free of the water. To pole or row
this unwieldy raft in such a flood would have been
quite out of the question, and even in carrying
out the plan which Tom now thought furnished
his only hope, he knew that the sole chance of
success lay in starting right. If the float, through
premature or unskilful starting, should get headed
downstream, there would be no hope of counter-*
acting its impetus.

Lifting his machine, he lowered it carefully
into the opening left by the torn-off plank, until
the pedals rested upon the planks on either side and
the power wheel was partially submerged. So
far, so good.

"UNCLE SAM" 147

In less than a minute now he would either suc-
ceed or fail. It was necessary first to alter the
position of the float slightly so that the opening
left by the plank pointed across and slightly up-
stream. He had often noticed how the pilot of
a ferryboat directs his craft above or below the
point of landing to counteract the rising or ebbing
tide, and this was his intention now; but to
neutralize the force of the v/ater with another
force not subject to direction or adjustment in-
volved a rather nice calculation.

Very cautiously he waded out upon the pre-
cipitous, submerged bank and brought the float
;nto position. This done, he acted with lightning
rapidity. Leaping upon the freed float before it
had time to swing around, he raised his machine,
started it, and lowering the power wrheel into the
opening, steadied the machine as best he could.
It was not possible to let it hang upon its pedals
for he must hold it at a steep angle, and it re-
quired all his strength to manage its clumsy,
furiously vibrating bulk.

But the effects of his makeshift paddle-wheel
were pronounced and instantaneous. His own
weight and that of the machine sufficiently sub-
merged the racing power wheel so that the rough

148 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER ^

paddles plowed the water, sending the float diag-
onally across the flooded stream with tremendous
force. He was even able, by inclining the upper
end of the machine to right or left, to guide his
clumsy craft, which responded to this live rudder
with surprising promptnecs.

In the rapid crossing this rough ferryboat lost
rather more than Tom had thought it would lose
from the rush of water and it brought him close
to the opposite shore at a point some fifty feet
beyond the road, but he had been able to main-
tain its direction at least to the extent of heading
shoreward and preventing the buoyant float from
fatal swirling, which would have meant loss of
control altogether.

Perhaps it was better that his point of landing
was some distance below the road, where he was
able to grasp at an overhanging tree with one
hand while shutting his power off and holding
fast to his machine with the other. A landing
would have been difficult anywhere else.

Even now he was in the precarious position of
sitting upon a limb in a rather complicated net-
work of small branches and foliage, hanging onto
his motorcycle for dear life, while the buoyant
float went swirling and bobbing down the flood.

"UNCLE SAM" 149

It had taken him perhaps five minutes to pre-
pare for his crossing and about thirty seconds to
cross. But his strategic position was far from
satisfactory. And already the more substantial
light of the morning revealed the gray road wind-
ing ribbon-like away into the distance, the first
glints of sunlight falling upon its bordering rocks
and trees as if to taunt and mock him.

And meinwkile the minutes passed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

UP A TREE

IN military parlance, Tom had advanced only,
to be caught in a pocket. There he sat, astride
a large limb, hanging onto the heavy machine,
which depended below him just free of the water.
He had, with difficulty, moved his painful grip
upon a part of the machine's mechanism and
succeeded in clutching the edge of the forward
wheel. This did not cut his hands so much, but
the weight was unbearable in his embarrassed
attitude.

Indeed, it was not so much his strength, which
was remarkable, that enabled him to keep his hold
upon this depending dead weight, as it was sheer
desperation. It seemed to be pulling his arms out
of their sockets, and his shoulders ached inces-
santly. At the risk of losing his balance alto-
gether he sought relief by the continual shifting
of his position but he knew that the strain was
too great for him and that he must let go pres-
ently.

ISO

UP A TREE 151

It seemed like a mockery that he should have
gained the shore only to be caught in this pre-
dicament, and to see his trusty machine go
tumbling into the water beyond all hope of pres-
ent recovery, simply because he could not hang
en to it.

Well, then, he would hang on to it. He would
hang on to it though every muscle of his body
throbbed, though his arms were dragged out, and
though he collapsed and fell from that limb him-
self in the last anguish of the aching strain. He
and Uncle Sam, having failed, would go down
together.

And meanwhile the minutes passed and Uncle
Sam and Tom were reflected, inverted, in the
water where the spreading light was now flicker-
ing. How strange and grotesque they looked,
upside down and clinging to each other for dear
life and wriggling in the ripples of rushing water.
Uncle Sam seemed to be holding him up. It was
all the same — they were partners.

He noticed in the water something which he
had not noticed before — the reflection of a short,
thick, broken branch projecting from the heavy
limb he was straddling. He glanced about and
found that it was behind him. His stooping at-

152 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

titude, necessitated by the tremendous drag on
his arms, prevented him even from looking freely
behind him, and in trying to do so he nearly fell.
The strain he was suffering was so great that the
least move caused him pain.

But by looking into the water he was able to
see that this little stub of a limb might serve as
a hook on which the machine might be hung if
he could clear away the leafy twigs which grew:
from it, and if he could succeed in raising the
cycle and slipping the wheel over it. That would
not end his predicament but it would save the
machine, relieve him for a few moments, and
give him time to think.

For a few moments! They were fleeting by —
the moments.

There is a strength born of desperation — a
strength of will which is conjured into physical
power in the last extremity. It is when the fran-
tic, baffled spirit calls aloud to rally every failing
muscle and weakening nerve. It is then that the
lips tighten and the eyes become as steel, as the
last reserves waiting in the entrenchments of the
soul are summoned up to re-enforce the losing
cause.

And there in that tree, on the brink of tkc

V UP A TREE 153

heedless, rushing waters which crossed the high-
road to Dieppe was going to be fought out one of
the most desperate battles of the whole war.
There, in the mocking light of the paling dawn,
Tom Slade, his big mouth set like a vice, and with
every last reserve he could command, was going
to make his last cast of the dice — let go, give up
— or, hold on.

Let go! Of all the inglorious forms of defeat
or surrender! To let go! To be struck down,
to be taken prisoner, to be

But to let go! The bulldog, the snapping
turtle, seemed like very heroes now.

uHe always said I had a good muscle-^-he
liked to feel it," he muttered. "And besides, she
said she guessed I was strong."

He was thinking of Margaret Ellison, away
back in America, and of Roscoe Bent, as he had
known him there. When he muttered again there
was a beseeching pathos in his voice which would
have pierced the heart of anyone wrho could have
seen him struggling still against fate, in this all
but hopeless predicament.

But no one saw him except the sun who was
raising his head above the horizon as a soldier
steals a cautious look over the trench parapet.

154 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

There would be no report of this affair.

He lowered his chest to the limb, wound his
legs around it and for a second lay there while
he tightened and set his legs, as one will tighten
a belt against some impending strain. Not
another fraction of an inch could he have
tightened those encircling legs.

And now the fateful second was come. It
had to come quickly for his strength was ebbing.
There is a pretty dependable rule that if you can
just manage to lift a weight with both hands, you
can just about budge it with one hand. Tom had
tried this at Temple Camp with a visiting scout's
baggage chest. With both hands he had been
barely able to lift it by its strap. With one hand
he had been able to budge it for the fraction of a
second. But there had been no overmastering
incentive — and no reserves called up out of the
depths of his soul.

He could feel his breast palpitating against the
limb, drawn tight against it by the dead weight.
Yet he could not put his desperate purpose to the
test.

And so a second — two, three, seconds — were
wasted.

"I won't let go," he muttered through his

UP A TREE 155

teeth. UI wish I could wipe the sweat off my
hand." Then, as if his dogged resolution were
not enough, he added, almost appealingly, "Don't
you drop and — and go back on me."

Uncle Sam only swung a little in the breeze
and wriggled like an eel in the watery mirror.

Slowly Tom loosened his perspiring left hand,
not daring to withdraw it. The act seemed to
communicate an extra strain to every part of his
body. Of all the fateful moments of his life, this
seemed to be the most tense. Then, in an im-
pulse of desperation, he drew his left hand away.

"I won't — let — go," he muttered.

The muscles on his taut right arm stood out
like cords. His forearm throbbed with an in-
describable, pulling pain. There was a feeling of
dull soreness in his shoulder blade. His perspir-
ing hand closed tighter around the wheel's rim
and he could feel his pulse pounding. His fingers
tingled as if they had been asleep. Then his hand
slipped a little.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"TO HIM THAT OVERCOMETH"

WHETHER merely from the change of an
eighth of an inch or so in its hold upon the rim,
or because his palm fitted better around the slight
alteration of curve, Tom was conscious of the
slightest measure of relief.

As quickly as he dared (for he knew that any
sudden move would be fatal), he reached behind
him with his left arm and, groping for the stub
of limb, tore away from it the twigs which he
knew would form an obstacle to placing the
wheel rim with its network of spokes over this
short projection.

The dead soreness of his straining shoulder
blade ran down his arm, which throbbed pain-
fully. His twitching, struggling fingers, straining
against the weight which was forcing them open,
clutched the rim. They were burning and yet
seemed numb. Oh, if he could only wipe his
palm and that rim with a dry handkerchief! He

156

"TO HIM THAT OVERCOiMETH" 157

tightened his slipping fingers again and again.
The muscles of his arm smarted as from a blow.
He tightened his lips — and that seemed to help.

Carefully, though his aching breast pounded
against the limb, he brought ba^k his left hand,
cautiously rubbed it against his khaki shirt, then
encircled it about the rim. For a moment the
weight seemed manageably light in the quick re-
lief he felt.

Availing himself of the slight measure of re-
freshment he raised the machine a trifle, a trifle
more, squirmed about to get in better position,
bent, strained, got the bulky thing past his clutch-
ing legs, exerted every muscle of chest and ab-
domen, which now could assume some share of
the strain, and by a superhuman effort of lithe-
ness and dexterity and all the overwhelming
power of physical strength and frenzied resolu-
tion, he succeeded in slipping the wheel rim over
the stubby projection behind him.

If he had been running for ten miles he could
not have been more exhausted. His breast heaved
with every spasmodic breath he drew. His
shoulder blades throbbed like an aching tooth.
His dripping palm was utterly numb. For a
few brief, precious seconds he sat upon the limb

158 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

with a sense of unutterable relief, and mopped
his beaded forehead. And the sun's full, round
face smiled approvingly upon him.

Meanwhile the minutes flew.

Hurrying now, he scrambled down the tree
trunk where he had a better and less discouraging
view of the situation. He saw that Uncle Sam
hung about five feet from the brink and just clear
of the water. If the bank on this side was less
precipitous than on the other there would be
some prospect of rescuing his machine without
serious damage. He could afford to let it get wet
provided the carburetor and magneto were not
submerged and the gas tank

The gas tank. That thought stabbed him.
Could the gasoline have flowed out of the tank
while the machine was hanging up and down?
That would bring the supply hole, with its per-
forated screw-cover, underneath.

He waded cautiously into the water and found
to his infinite relief that the submerged bank
formed a gentle slope. He could not go far
enough to lift his machine, but he could reach to
wiggle it off its hook and then guide it, in some
measure, enough to ease its fall and keep its
damageable parts clear of the water. At least

"TO HIM THAT OVERCOMETH" 159

he believed he could. In any event, he had no
alternative choice and time was flying. After
what he had already done he felt he could do any-
thing Success, however wearying and exhausting,
gives one a certain working capital of strength,
and having succeeded so far he would not now
fail. His success in crossing had given him that
working capital of resolution and incentive whence
came his superhuman strength and overmastering
resolve in that lonely tree. And he would not
fail now.

Yet he could not bring himself to look at his
watch. He was willing to venture a guess, from
the sun, as to what time it was, but he could not
clinch the knowledge by a look at the cruel, un-
compromising little glass-faced autocrat in his
pocket. He preferred to work in the less dis-
heartening element of uncertainty. He did not
want to know the hard, cold truth — not till he
was moving.

Here now was the need of nice calculating, and
Tom eyed the shore and the tree and the machine
with the appraising glance of a wrestler eyeing
his opponent. He broke several branches from
the tree, laying them so as to form a kind of
springy, leafy mound close to the brink. Then

160 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARERS

standing knee-deep he wiggled the wheel's rim
very cautiously out to the end of its hanger, so
that it just balanced there.

One more grand drive, one more effort of un-
yielding strength and accurate dexterity and — he
would be upon the road.

The thought acted as a stimulant. Lodging
one hand under the seat of the machine and the
other upon a stout bar of the mechanism which
he thought would afford him just the play and
swing he needed, he joggled the wheel off its
hanger, and with a wide sweep, in which he
skillfully minimized the heavy weight, he swung
the machine onto the springy bed which he had
made to receive it.

Then, as the comrade of a wounded soldier
may bend over him, he knelt down beside his com-
panion upon the makeshift, leafy couch.

"Are you all right?" he asked in the agitation
of his triumphant effort.

Uncle Sam did not answer.

He stood the machine upright and lowered the
rest so that it could stand unaided; and he tore
away the remnant of mud-guard which Uncle
Sam had sacrificed in his role of combination en-
gine and paddle-wheel.

"TO HIM THAT OVERCOMETH" 161.

"You've got the wires all tangled up in your
spokes," Tom said; "you look like a — a wreck.
What do you want with those old sticks of
shingles? How are you off for gas — you— -you
old tramp?"

Uncle Sam did not answer.

"Anyway, you're all right," Tom panted; "only
my arm is worse than your old mud-guard. We're

a pair of Can't you speak?" he added

breathing the deadly fatigue he felt and putting
his foot upon the pedal. "What — do — you —
say? Huh?"

And then Uncle Sam answered.

"Tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r Never mind

your arm. Come ahead — hurry," he seemed to
say.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO — "

SWIFTLY along the sun-flecked road sped the
dispatch-rider. In the mellow freshness of the
new day he rode, and the whir of his machine
in its lightning flight mingled with the cheery
songs of the birds, whose early morning chorus
heartened and encouraged him. There was a
balm in the fragrant atmosphere of the cool, gray
morning which entered the soul of Tom Slade
and whispered to him, There is no such word as
fail.

Out of the night he had come, out of travail,
and brain-racking perplexity and torturing effort,
crossing rushing waters and matching his splendid
strength and towering will against obstacles,
against fate, against everything.

As he held the handle-bar of Uncle Sam in
that continuous handshake which they knew so
well, his right arm felt numb and sore, and his

162

"WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO" 163

whole body ached. Uncle Sam's big, leering glass
eye was smashed, his mud-guard wrenched off, and
dried mud was upon his wheels. His rider's uni-
form was torn and water-soaked, his face black
with grime. They made a good pair.

Never a glance to right or left did the rider
give, nor so much as a perfunctory nod to the
few early risers who paused to stare at him as
he sped by. In the little hamlet of Persan an old
Frenchman sitting on a rustic seat before the
village inn, removed his pipe from his mouth
long enough to call,

"La cote?"

But never a word did the rider answer. Chil-
dren, who, following the good example of the
early bird, were already abroad, scurried out of
his way, making a great clatter in their wooden
shoes, and gaping until he passed beyond their
sight.

Over the bridge at Soignois he rushed, making
its ramshackle planks rattle and throw up a cloud
of dust from between the vibrating seams. Out
of this cloud he emerged like a gray spectre, body
bent, head low, gaze fixed and intense, leaving a
pandemonium of dust and subsiding echoes be-
hind him.

164 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

At Virneu an old housewife threw open her
blinds and seeing the dusty khaki of the rider*
summoned her brood, who waved the tricolor
from the casement, laughing and calling, "V'we
VAmerique!"

Their cheery voices and fraternal patriotism
did cause Tom to turn his head and call,

"Merci. Five la France!"

And they answered again with a torrent of
French.

The morning was well established as he passed
through Chuisson, and a clock upon a romantic,
medieval-looking little tower told him that it
lacked but ten minutes of five ©'clock.

A feeling of doubt, almost of despair, seized
upon him and he called in that impatient surli-
ness which springs from tense anxiety, asking an
old man how far it was to Dieppe.

The man shrugged his shoulders and shook his
head in polite confession that he did not under-
stand English.

In his anxiety it irritated Tom. "What do
you know?" he muttered.

Out of Chuisson he labored up a long hill, and
though Uncle Sam made no more concession to
it than to slacken his unprecedented rate of speed

WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO" 165

the merest trifle, the difference communicated
itself to Tom at once and it seemed, by contrast,
as if they were creeping. On and up Uncle Sam
went, plying his way sturdily, making a great
noise and a terrific odor — dogged, determined and
irresistible.

But the rider stirred impatiently. Would they
ever, ever, reach the top ? And when they should,
there would be another hamlet in a valley, another
bridge, more stupid people who could not speak
English, more villages, more bends in the road,
still other villages, and then — another hill.

It seemed to Tom that he had been travelling
for ten years and that there was to be no end
of it. Ride, ride, ride — it brought him nowhere.
His right arm which had borne that tremendous
strain, was throbbing so that he let go the handle-
bar from time to time in the hope of relief. It
was the pain of acute tiredness, for which there
could be no relief but rest. Just to throw him-
self down and rest! Oh, if he could only lay
that weary, aching arm across some soft pillow
and leave it there — just leave it there. Let it
hang, bend it, hold it above him, lay it on Uncle
Sam's staunch, unfeeling arm of steel, he could
not, could not, get it rested.

166 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

The palm of his hand tingled with a kind of
irritating feeling like chilblains, and he must be
continually removing one or other hand from the
bar so that he could reach one with the other.
It did not help him keep his poise. If he could
only scratch his right hand once and be done with
it! But it annoyed him like a fly.

Up, up, up, they went, and passed a quaint,
old, thatch-roofed house. Crazy place to build
a house! And the people in it — probably all
they could do was to shrug their shoulders in
that stupid way when asked a question in Eng-
lish.

He was losing his morale — was this dispatch-
rider.

But near the top of the hill he regained it
somewhat. Perhaps he could make up for this
lost time in some straight, level reach of road
beyond.

Up, up, up, plowed Uncle Sam, one lonely
splinter of shingle still bound within his spokes,
and his poor, dented headlight bereft of its dig-
nity.

"I've an idea the road turns north about a mile
down," Tom said to himself, "and runs around
through "

"WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO" 167

The words stopped upon his lips as Uncle
Sam, still laboring upward, reached level ground,
and as if to answer Tom out of his own uncom-
plaining and stouter courage, showed him a sight
which sent his faltering hope skyward and started
his heart bounding.

For there below them lay the vast and endless
background of the sea, throwing every interven-
ing detail of the landscape into insignificance.
There it was, steel blue in the brightening sun-
light and glimmering here and there in changing
white, where perhaps some treacherous rock or
bar lay just submerged. And upon it, looking in-
finitesimal in the limitless expanse, was something
solid with a column of black smoke rising and
winding away from it and dissolving in the clear,
morning air.

'There you are !" said Tom, patting Uncle
Sam patronizingly in a swift change of mood.
"See there? That's the Atlantic Ocean — that is.
'Now will you hurry? That's a ship coming in —
see? I bet it's a whopper, too. Do you know
what — what's off beyond there?" he fairly panted
in his excitement; "do you? You old French
hobo, you? America! That's where / came
from. Now will you hurry? That's Dieppe,

168 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

where the white* is and those steeples, see?
And way across there on the other side is Amer-
ica !"

For Uncle Sam, notwithstanding his name, was
a French motorcycle and had never seen America.

Dieppe's famous beach.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A SURPRISE

DOWN the hill coasted Uncle Sam, bearing his
rider furiously onward. A fence along the way-
side seemed like a very entanglement of stakes
and pickets. Then it was gone. A house loomed
up in view, grew larger, and was gone. A cow
that was grazing in a field languidly raised her
head, blinked her eyes, and stood as if uncertain
whether she had really seen something pass or
not.

They were in the valley now and the sea was
no longer discernible. On they rushed with a
fine disdain for poor little Charos, whose village
steeple appeared and disappeared like a flash of
lightning. The road was broad and level and
Uncle Sam sped along amid a cloud of dust, the
bordering trees and houses flying away behind like
dried leaves in a hurricane. The rider's hair was
fluttering like a victorious emblem, his eyes fixed
twith a wild intensity.

169

170 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

'We'd get arrested for this in America," he
muttered; "we — we should worry."

It was little Uncle Sam cared for the traffic
laws of America.

Around the outskirts of Teurley they swept and
into the broad highway like a pair of demons,
and a muleteer, seeing discretion to be the better
part of valor, drove his team well to the side —
far enough, even, to escape any devilish con-
tamination which this unearthly apparition might
diffuse.

They had reached a broad highway, one of
those noble roads which Napoleon had made.
They could not go wrong now. They passed a
luxurious chateau, then a great hotel where peo-
ple haled them in French. Then they passed an
army auto truck loaded with mattresses, with the
bully old initials U. S. A. on its side. Two boys
in khaki were on the seat.

"Is the Texas Pioneer in?" Tom yelled.

"What?" one of them called back.

"He's deaf or something," muttered Tom;
"we — should worry."

On they sped till the road merged into a
street lined with shops, where children in wooden
shoes and men in blouses shuffled about. Tom

DOWN THE HILL COASTED UNCLE SAM BEARING TOM

FURIOUSLY ONWARD. page 169

.

A SURPRISE 171,

thought he had never seen people so slow in his
life.

Now, indeed, he must make some concession
to the throngs moving back and forth, and he
slackened his speed, but only slightly.

"Dieppe ?" he called.

"Dieppe," came the laughing answer from a
passer-by, who was evidently amused at Tom's
pronunciation.

" Where's the wharves?"

Again that polite shrug of the shoulders.

He took a chance with another passer-by, who
nodded and pointed down a narrow street with
dull brown houses tumbling all over each other,
as it seemed to Tom. It was the familiar, old-
world architecture of the French coast towns,
which he had seen in Brest and St. Nazaire, as if
all the houses had become suddenly frightened
and huddled together like panicky sheep.

More leisurely now, but quickly still, rode the
dispatch-rider through this narrow, surging way
which had all the earmarks of the shore — damp-
smelling barrels, brass lanterns, dilapidated
ships' figureheads, cosy but uncleanly drinking
places, and sailors.

And of all the sights save one which Tom

172 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER^

Slade ever beheld, the one which most gladdened
his heart was a neat new sign outside a stone
building,

Office of United States Quartermaster.

Several American army wagons were backed
up against the building and half a dozen khaki-
clad boys lounged about. There was much com-
ing and going, but it is a part of the dispatch-
rider's prestige to have immediate admittance
anywhere, and Tom stopped before this building
and wras immediately surrounded by a flattering
representation of military and civilian life, botK
French and American.

To these he paid not the slightest heed, but
carefully lowered Uncle Sam's rest so hat hia
weary companion might stand alone.

"You old tramp," he said in an undertone;
"stay here and take it easy. Keep away," he
added curtly to a curious private who was ventur-
ing a too close inspection of Uncle Sam's honor-
able wounds.

"What's the matter — run into something?" he
asked.

"No, I didn't," said Tom, starting toward th'e
building.

A SURPRISE 172

Suddenly he stopped short, staring.

A man in civilian clothes sat tilted back in one
of several chairs beside the door. He wore a
little black moustache and because his head was
pressed against the brick wall behind him, his hat
was pushed forward giving him a rakish look
which was rather heightened by an unlighted
cigar sticking up out of the corner of his mouth
like a piece of field artillery.

He might have been a travelling salesman
waiting for his samples on the veranda of a
country hotel and he had about him a kind of
sophisticated look as if he took a sort of blase
pleasure in watching the world go round. His
feet rested upon the rung of his tilted chair,
forming his knees into a sort of desk upon which
lay a French newspaper. The tilting of his knees,
the tilting of his chair, the tilting of his hat and
the rakish tilt of his cigar, gave him the appear-
ance of great self-sufficiency, as if, away down in
his soul, he knew what he was there for, and
cared not a whit whether anyone else did or not.

Tom Slade paused on the lower step and
stared. Then with a slowly dawning smile sup-
planting his look of astonishment, he ejaculated,

"M-i-s-t-e-r

174 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

The man made not the slightest change in his
attitude except to smile the while he worked his
cigar over to the other corner of his mouth.
Then \ e cocked his head slightly sideways.

"H'lo, Tommy," said he.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SMOKE AND FIRE

MR. CARLETON CONNE, of the United States
Secret Service, had come over from Liverpool via
Dover on a blind quest after an elusive spy.
There had been a sort of undercurrent of rumor,
with many extravagant trappings, that a myster-
ious agent of the Kaiser was on his way to
Europe with secrets of a most important character.
Some stories had it that he was intimately re-
lated to Bloody Bill himself; others that he
gloried in a kinship with Ludendorf, while still
other versions represented him as holding Mexico
in the palm of his hand. Dark stories floated
about and no one knew just where they orig-
inated.

One sprightly form this story took, which had
been whispered in New York and then in Liver-
pool, was that a certain young lady (identity un-
known) had talked with a soldier (identity un-

17$

176 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

known) in the Grand Central Station in New
York, and that the soldier had told her that at
his cantonment (cantonment not identified) there
was a man in a special branch of the service
(branch not mentioned) who was a cousin or a
brother or a nephew or a son or something or
other to a German general or statesman or some-
thing or other, and that he had got into the
American army by a pretty narrow squeak. There
seemed to be a unanimity of opinion in the lower
strata of Uncle Sam's official family in Liverpool
that the soldier who had talked with the young
lady was coming over on the transport Man«
chester and it was assumed (no one seemed to
know exactly why) that the mysterious and sinis-
ter personage would be upon the same ship.

But no soldier had been found upon the Man-
chester who showed by his appearance that he
had chatted with a young lady. Perhaps several
of them had done that. It is a way soldiers have.

As for the arch spy or propagandist, he did
not come forward and introduce himself as such,
and though a few selected suspects of Germaa
antecedents were searched and catechised by Mr.
Conne and others, no one was held.

And there you are.

SMOKE AND FIRE 177

Rumors of this kind are always in circulation
and the Secret Service people run them down as
a matter of precaution. But though you can run
a rumor down and stab it through and through
you cannot kill it. It now appeared that this
German agent had sailed from Mexico and would
land at Brest — with a message to some French
statesman. Also it appeared that he had stolen
a secret from Edison and would land at Dieppe.
It had also been reported that someone had at-
tempted to blow up the loaded transport Texas
Pioneer on her way over.

And so Mr. Carleton Conne, of the American
Secret Service, quiet, observant, uncommunicative,
never too sanguine and never too skeptical, had
strolled on to the Channel Queen, lighted his cigar,
and was now tilted back in his chair outside the
Quartermaster's office in Dieppe, not at all
excited and waiting for the Texas Pioneer to
dock.

He had done this because he believed that
where there is a great deal of smoke there is apt
to be a little fire. He was never ruffled, never
disappointed.

Tom's acquaintance with Mr. Conne had be-
gun on the transport on which he had worked as

178 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER '

a steward's boy, and where his observant qualities
and stolid soberness had attracted and amused the
detective.

"I never thought I'd see you here," said Tom,
his face lighting up to an unusual degree. "I'm a
dispatch-rider now. I just rode from Cantigny*
I got a letter for the Quartermaster, but anyway
he's got to turn me over to the Secret Service
(Mr. Conne regarded him with whimsical atten-
tion as he stumbled on), because there's a plot
and somebody — a spy — kind of • - "

"A spy, kind of, eh?"

"And I hope the Texas Pioneer didn't land yet,
that's one sure thing."

"It's one sure thing that she'll dock in about
fifteen minutes, Tommy," said Mr. Conne rising.
"Come inside and deliver your message. What's
the matter with your machine? Been trying to
wipe out the Germans alone and unaided, like the
hero in a story book?"

Tom followed him in, clumsily telling the
story of his exciting journey; "talking in chunks,"
as he usually did and leaving many gaps to be
filled in by the listener.

"I'm glad I found you here, anyway," he fin-
ished, as if that were the only part that really t

SMOKE AND FIRE 179

counted; ' 'cause now I feel as if I can tell about
an idea I've got. I'd of been scared to tell it
to anybody else. I ain't exactly got it yet," he
added, ubut maybe I can help even better than
they thought, 'cause as I was ridin' along I had
a kind of an idea "

"Yes?"

'Kind of. Did you ever notice how you get
fool ideas when there's a steady noise going on?"

"So?' said Mr. Conne, as he led the way
long a hall.

'It was the noise of my machine."

"How about the smell, Tommy?" Mr. Conne
asked, glancing around with that pleasant, funny
look which Tom had known so well.

'You don't get ideas from smells," he answered
soberly.

In the Quartermaster's office he waited on a
bench while Mr. Conne and several other men,
two in uniform and two that he thought might be
Secret Service men, talked in undertones. If he
had been a hero in a book, to use Mr. Conne's
phrase, these officials would doubtless have been
assembled about him listening to his tale, but as
it was he was left quite out of the conference
until, near its end, he was summoned to tell of

180 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

his capture of Major von Piffinhoeffer and asked
If he thought he could identify a close relation of
that high and mighty personage simply by seeing
him pass as a total stranger.

Tom thought he might "by a special way,"
and explained his knowledge of breed marks and
specie marks. He added, in his stolid way, that
he had another idea, too. But they did not ask
him what that was. One of the party, a naval
officer, expressed surprise that he had ridden all
the way from Cantigny and asked him if it were
not true that part of the road was made im-
passible by floods. Tom answered that there
were floods but that they were not impassible "if
you knew how." The officer said he supposed
Tom knew how, and Tom regarded this as a
compliment.

Soon, to his relief, Mr. Conne took all the
papers in the case and left the room, beckoning
Tom to follow him. Another man in civilian
clothes hurried away and Tom thought he might
be going to the dock. It seemed to him that his
rather doubtful ability to find a needle in a hay-
stack had not made much of an impression upon
these officials, and he wondered ruefully what Mr.
Conne thought. He saw that his arrival with

SMOKE AND FIRE 181

the papers had produced an enlivening effect
among the officials, but it seemed that he himself
was not taken very seriously. Well, in any event,
he had made the trip, he had beaten the ship, de-
livered the message to Garcia.

"I got to go dowr? and turn rny grease cup
before I forget it," he said, as they came out on
the little stone portico again.

Several soldiers who were soon t<? see more
harrowing sights than a bunged-up motorcycle,
were gathered about Uncle Sam, gaping at him
and commenting upon his disfigurements. Big
U. S. A. auto trucks v/ere passing by. A squad
of German prisoners, of lowering and sullen as-
pect, marched by with wheelbarrows full of gray
blankets. They were keeping perfect stept
through sheer force of habit. Another dispatch-
rider (a 'local") passed by, casting a curious eye
3£ Uncle Sam, A French child who sat upon the
2t22 I*ad one of his woodnn ihoss — ill *i ?«3s>ky,
used bullets, which he seemed greatly to prize.
Several "flivver" ambulances stood across the
way, new and roughly made, destined for the
front. American naval and military officers were
all about.

"We haven't got much time to spare, Tommy,"

182 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

said Mr. Conne, resuming his former seat and
glancing at his watch.

"It's only a second. I just got to turn the
grease cup."

He hurried down past the child, who called
him "M'sieu Yankee," and elbowed his way
through the group of soldiers who were standing
about Uncle Sam.

'Your timer bar's bent," one of them volun-
teered.

Tom did not answer, but knelt and turned the
grease cup, then wiped the nickel surfaces, bent
and dented though they were, with a piece of
cotton waste. Then he felt of his tires. Then he
adjusted the position of the handlebar more to
his liking and as he did so the poor, dented, glass-
less searchlight bobbed over sideways as if to look
at the middle of the street. Tom said something
which was not audible to the curious onlookers.
Perhaps Uncle Sam heard.

The local rider came jogging around the corner
on his way back. His machine was American-
made and a medley of nickel and polished brass.
As he made the turn his polished searchlight, witk
a tiny flag perched jauntily upon it, seemed to be
looking straight at Uncle Sam. And Uncle Sam's

SMOKE AND FIRE 183

green-besprinkled,* glassless eye seemed to be
leering with a kind of sophisticated look at the
passing machine. It was the kind of look which
the Chicago Limited might give to the five-thirty
suburban starting with its load of New York
commuters for East Orange, New Jersey.

* The eff ect of water on brass is to produce a greenish,
superficial erosion.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"MADE IN GERMANY"

!1Now, Tommy, let's hear your idea/' said Mr.
Conne, indulgently, as he worked his cigar from
one corner of his mouth to the other. "I find
there's generally a little fire where there's a good
deal of smoke. There's somebody or other, as
you say, but the trouble is we don't know who he
is. We think maybe he looks like someone youVe
seen. We think he may have a patent ear." He
looked at Tom sideways and Tom could not help
laughing. Then he looked at the mysterious
letter with a funny, ruminating look.

'What can we — you — do?" Tom ventured to
ask, feeling somewhat squelched.

Mr. Conne screwed up his month with a
dubious look. "Search everybody on board, two
or three thousand, quiz a few, that's about all.
It'll take a long time and probably reveal nothing.
Family resemblances are all right when you know

124

"MADE IN GERMANY'5 185

both members, Tommy, but out in the big
world — Well, let's look this over again/1 he
tdded, taking up the letter.

Tom knew that he was Tint ^elng consulted
He had a feeling that his suggestion about breed
marks and personal resemblances was not being
taken seriously. He was glad that he had not
put his foot too far in by telling of his other
precious idea. But he was proud of Mr. Conne's
companionable attitude toward him. He was
proud to be the friend of such a man. He was
delighted at the thought of participation in this
matter. He knew Mr. Conne liked him and had
at least a good enough opinion of him to adopt
the appearance of conferring with him. Mr.
Conne's rather whimsical attitude toward this
conference did not lessen his pride.

"Let's see now/1 said the defence "This
lliing evidently went through Holland m code.
It's a rendering."

It was easy for Tom to believe that Mr. Conne
was re-reading the letter just to himself — or to
himself and Tom.

"Let's see now — but, as you say, everything for
the Fatherland. If you receive this, let them know
that I'll have my arms crossed and to be careful

186 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

before they shoot. I wish he'd cross his arms
when he comes ashore. He's evidently planning
to get himself captured. // you don't get this I'll
just have to take my chance. The other way isn't
worth trying. Hmm! Probably thought of de-
serting at the wharf and getting into Holland or
Belgium. No, that wouldn't be worth trying.
As for the code key, that'll be safe enough — <
they'll never find it. Hmm! // it wasn't for
the — what's all this — the English swine. Humph !
They fight pretty good for swine, don't they,
Tommy? As far as I can ascertain, we'll go on
the T. P. We know that much, anyway, thanks
to you, Tommy." (Tom felt highly elated.)
"There was some inquiry about my close relation-
ship to you, but nothing serious. All you have to
do is to cheer when they play the S. 8. B. over
here. Humph ! That's worth knowing. It isn't
known if Schmitter had the key to this when they

caught him

"He didn't," said Mr. Conne dryly; "I was
the one who caught him." — because he died on
Ellis Island. But it's being abandoned to be on
the safe side. Safety first, hey? / have notice
from H. not to use it after sending this letter*
If we can get the new one in your hands before — »

"MADE IN GERMANY" 187

Seems to be blotted out — in time so it can be used
through Mexico. I'll Have much information to
communicate verbally in T. and A. m>atters} but
will bring nothing in — — form but key

and credentials. He means actual, concealed or
disguised form, I s'pose. The idea is L.'s. I
suppose he means the manner of concealing the
key and credentials."

"Yes," said Tom rather excitedly.

Mr. Conne glanced at him, joggled his cigar,
and went on,

"You remember him at Heidelberg} I dare say.
I brought him back once for holiday. Met him
through Handel, who was troubled with cataract.
F. has furnished funds. So don't fail to have
them watch out"

;'Hmm!" concluded Mr. Conne ruminatively.
"You see what they're up to. We caught
Schmitter in Philadelphia. They think maybe
Schmitter had the key of a code with him. So
they're changing the code and sending the key to
it across with this somebody or other. That's
about the size of it. He's got a lot of in-
formation, too, in his head, where we can't get
at it."

"But his credentials will have to be something

188 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

that can be seen, won't they?' Tom ventured to
ask.

"Prob'ly. You see, he means to desert or get
captured. It's a long way round, but about the
best one — for him. Think of that snake wear-
ing Uncle Sam's uniform !"

'It makes me mad, too — kind of," said Tom.

"So he's probably got some secret means of
identification about him, and probably the new
code key in actual form — somewhere else than
just in his head. Then there'd be a chance of
getting it across even if he fell. We'] give him
an acid bath and look in his shoes if we can find
him. The whole thing hangs on a pretty thin
thread. They used to have invisible writing on
their backs till we started the acid bath."

He whistled reflectively for a few moments,
while Tom struggled to muster the courage to
say something that he washed to say.

"Could I tell you about that other idea of
mine?" he blurted finally.

'You sure can, Tommy. That's about all we're
likely to get — ideas." And he glanced at Tom
again with that funny, sideways look. "Shoot,
my boy."

clt's only this," said Tom, still not without

"MADE IN GERMANY" 189

some trepidation, "and maybe you'll say it's no
good. You told me once not to be thinking of
things that's none of my business."

"Uncle Sam's business is our business now,
Tommy boy.75

"Well, then, it's just this, and I was thinking
about it while I was riding just after I started
away from Cantigny. Mostly I was thinking
about it after I took that last special look at old
Piff "

Mr. Conne chuckled. "I see," he said en-
couragingly.

"Whoever that feller is," said Tom, "there's
one thing sure. If he's comin' as a soldier he
Won't get to the front very soon, 'cause they're
mostly the drafted fellers that are comin' now
and they have to go in training over here. I
know, 'cause I've seen lots of 'em in billets."

"Hmm," said Mr. Conne.

"So if the feller expects to go to the front and
get captured pretty soon, prob'ly he's in a special
unit. Maybe I might be all wrong about
it — some fellers used to call me Bullhead," he
added by way of shaving his boldness down a
little.

But Mr. Conne, with hat tilted far down over

190 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

his forehead and cigar at an outrageously rakish
angle, was looking straight ahead of him, at a
French flag across the way.

"Go on," he said crisply.

''Anyway, I'm sure the feller wouldn't be an
engineer, 'cause mostly they're behind the lines.
So I thought maybe he*d be a surgeon "

Mr. Conne was whistling, almost inaudibly,
his eyes fixed upon the flagpole opposite. "He
was educated at Heidelberg," said he.

"I didn't think of that," said Tom.

"It's where he met L."

Tom said nothing. His line of reasoning
seemed to be lifted quietly away from him. Mr.
Conne was turning the kaleidoscope and showing
him new designs. "He took L. home for the
holidays," he quietly observed. "Old Piff and
the boys."

"I — I didn't think of that," said Tom, rather
crestfallen.

'You didn't ride fast enough and make enough
noise," Mr. Conne said. His eyes were still
fixed on the fluttering tricolor and he
whistled very low. Then he rubbed his lip with
his tongue and aimed his cigar in another
direction.

"MADE IN GERMANY" 191

"They were studying medicine there, I guess,"
he mused.

"That's just what my idea's about," said Tom.
"It ain't an idea exactly, either," he added, "but
it's kind of come to me sudden-like. You know
what a hunch is, don't you? There's something
there about somebody having a cataract, and
that's something the matter with your eyes; Mr.
Temple had one. So maybe that feller L. that
he met again is an eye doctor. Long before the
war started they told Mr. Temple maybe he
ought to go to Berlin to see the eye specialists
there — 'cause they're so fine. So maybe the spy
is a surgeon and L. is an eye doctor. It says how
he met him again on account of somebody having
a cataract. And he said the way of bringing the
code key was L.'s idea. I read about a dentist
that had a piece of paper with writing on it
rolled up in his tooth. He was a spy. So
that made me think maybe L.'s idea had some-
thing to do with eyes or glasses, as you might
say."

'Hmm! Go on. Anything else?'

"But, anyway, that ain't the idea I had. In
Temple Camp there wTas a scout that had a little
pocket looking-glass and you couldn't see any-

192 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

thing on it but your own reflection. But all you
had to do was to breathe on it and there was a
picture — all mountains and a castle, like. Then
it would fade away again right away. Roy
Blakeley wanted to swap his scout knife for it,
but the feller wouldn't do it. On the back of it
it said Made in Germany. It just came to me
sudden-like that maybe that was L.'s idea and
they'd have it on a pair of spectacles. Maybe
it's a kind of crazy idea, but— "

He looked doubtfully at Mr. Conne, who still
sat tilted back, hat almost hiding his face, cigar
sticking out from under it like a camouflaged
field-piece. Fie was whistling very quietly, "Oh,
boy, where do ive go from liere?n He had
whistled that same tune more than a year before
when he was waiting for a glimpse of "Dr.
Curry," spy and bomb plotter, aboard the vessel
on which Tom was working at that time. He
had whistled it as he escorted the "doctor"
down the companionway. How well Tom re-
membered !

"Come on, Tommy," he said, jumping suddenly
to his feet.

Tom followed. But Mr. Conne did not speak;
he was still busy with the tune. Only now he

"MADE IN GERMANY" 193

was singing the words. There was something
portentous in the careless way he sang them. It
took Tom back to the days when it was the
battle hymn of the transport :

"And when we meet a pretty girl, we whisper in

her ear,

Oh, Boy! Oh, Joy! Where do we go from
here?'1

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

'NOW YOU SEE IT, NOW YOU

THE big transport Texas Pioneer came slowly
about iii obedience to her straining ropes and
rubbed her mammoth side against the long wharf.
Up and down, this way and that, slanting-wise
and curved, drab and gray and white and red,
the grotesque design upon her towering free-
board shone like a distorted rainbow in the sun-
light. Out of the night she had come, stealing
silently through the haunts where murder lurks,
and the same dancing rays which had run ahead
of the dispatch-rider and turned to mock him,
had gilded her mighty prow as if to say, 'Behold,
I have reached you first."

At her rail crowded hundreds of boys in khaki,
demanding in English and atrocious French to
know where they were.

"Are we in France?" one called.

'Where's the Boid^rberlong, anyway?'" another
shouted, the famous Parisian boulevard evidently
being his only means of identifying France.

194

"NOW YOU SEE IT,— " 195

uls that Napoleon's tomb?" another demanded,
pointing to a little round building.

:'Lock at the pile of hams," shouted another
gazing over the rail at a stack of that delectable.
"Maybe we're in Hamburgl"

'This is Dippy,'1 his neighbor corrected him.

'You mean Deppy," another said.

And so on and so on. There seemed to be hun-
dreds of them, thousands of them, and all on a
gigantic picnic.

'Which is the quickest way to Berlin?" one
called, addressing the throng impartially.

"Second turn to your left."

Some of these boys would settle down in France
and make it their long, final home, under little
wooden crosses. But they did not seem to think
of that.

At the foot of the gangplank stood the dis-
patch-rider and the man with the cigar. Several
other men, evidently of their party, stood near by.
Mr. Conne's head was cocked sideways and he
scanned the gangway with a leisurely, self-assured
look. Tom was shaking all over — the victim of
suppressed excitement. He had been less excited
on that memorable morning when he had "done
his bit" at Cantigny.

J96 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

It seemed to be in the air that something unusual
was likely to happen. Workers, passing with
their wheelbarrows and hand trucks, slackened
their pace and dallied as long as they dared, near
the gangplank. They were quickly moved along.
Tom shifted from one foot to the other, waiting.
Mr. Conne worked his cigar over to the opposite
corner of his mouth and observed to an American
officer that the day was going to be warm. Then
he glanced up and smiled pleasantly at the boys
crowding at the rail. He might have been wait-
ing on a street corner for a car,

"Not nervous, are you?" he smiled at Tom.

"Not exactly/' said Tom, with his usual can*
dor; "but it seems as if nothing can happen at
all, now that we're here. It seems different,
thinking up things when you're riding along the
road — kind of."

"Uhhuh."

Presently the soldiers began coming down the
gangplank.

'You watch for resemblances and I'll do the
rest," said Mr. Conne in a low tone. "Give your-
self the benefit of every doubt. Know what I
mean?"

"Yes— I do."

"NOW YOU SEE IT,— " 197

can't help you there."

Tom felt a certain compunction at scrutinizing
these fine, American fellows as they carne down
with their kits — hearty, boisterous, open-hearted.
He felt that it was unworthy of him to suspect
any of this laughing, bantering army, of crime —
and such a crime ! Treason ! In the hope of
catching one he must scrutinize them all, and in
his generous heart it seemed to put a stigma on
them all. He hoped he wouldn't see anyone who
looked like Major von Piffinhoeffer. Then he
hoped he would. Then he wondered if he would

dare to look at him after And suppose he

should be mistaken. He did not like this sort of
work at all now that he was face to face with it.
He would rather be oPr with Uncle Sam, riding
along the French roads, with the French children
calling to him. For the first time in his life he
was nervous and afraid — not of being caught
but of catching someone; of the danger of sus-
pecting and being mistaken.

Mr. Conne, who never missed anything, noticed
his perturbation and patted him on the shoulder,
saying,

"All kinds of work have to be done, Tommy."
Tom tried to smile back at him.

198 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

Down the long gangplank they came, one after
another, pushing each other, tripping each other —
joking, laughing. Among them came a young
private, wearing glasses, who was singing,

"Good-bye, Broadway. Hello, France!"

He was startled out of his careless merriment
by a tap on the shoulder from Mr. Conne, and
almost before Tom realized what had happened,
he was standing blinking at one of the othef
Secret Service men who was handing him back
his glasses.

14 All right, my boy," said Mr. Conne pleas-
antly, which seemed to wipe out any indignity the
young man might have felt.

Tom looked up the gangplank as they surged
down, holding the rail to steady them on the
steep incline. Nobody seemed to have noticed
what had happened.

'Keep your mind on your part, Tommy," said
Mr. Conne warningly.

Tom saw that of all those in sight only one
wore glasses — a black-haired youth who kept his
hands on the shoulders of the man before him.
Tom made up his mind that he, in any event,
would not detain this fellow on the ground of

"NOW YOU SEE IT,—1' 199

anything in his appearance, nor any of the others
now in sight. Fie was drawn aside by Mr. Conne,
however, and became the object of attention of
the other Secret Service men.

Tom kept his eyes riveted upon the gangplank.
One, two, more, wearing glasses, came in view,
were stopped, examined, and passed on. After
that perhaps a hundred passed dowrn and away,
none of them with glasses, and all of them he
scrutinized carefully. Now another, with neatly
adjusted rimless glasses, came down. He had a
clean-cut, professional look. Tom did not take his
eyes off the descending column for a second, but
he heard Mr. Conne say pleasantly,

"Just a minute."

He was glad when he was conscious of this
fine-looking young American passing on.

So it went.

There were some whom poor Tom might have
been inclined to stop by way of precaution for no
better reason than that they had a rough-and-
ready look — hard fellows. He was glad — half
glad — when Mr. Conne, for reasons of his own,
detained one, then another, of these, though they
wore no glasses. And he felt like apologizing to
':hern for his momentary suspicion, as he saw them

200 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

pause surprised, answer frankly and honestly and
pass on.

Then came a young officer, immaculately at-
tired, his leather leggings shining, his uniform
fitting him as if he had been moulded into it.
He wore little rimless eye-glasses. He might lead
a raiding party for all that; but he was a bit
pompous and very self-conscious. Tom was
rather gratified to see him hailed aside.

Nothing.

Down they came, holding both rails and lifting
their feet to swing, like school boys — hundreds of
them, thousands of them, it seemed. Tom
watched them all keenly as they passed out like
an endless ribbon from a magician's hat. There
seemed to be no end of them.

There came now a fellow whom he watched
closely. He had blond hair and blue eyes, but no
glasses. He looked something like — something
like — oh, who? Fritzie Schmitt, whom he used
to know in Bridgeboro. No, he didn't — not so
much.

But his blond hair and blue eyes did not escape
Conne.

Nothing.

"Watching, Tommy?"

'NOW YOU SEE IT,—"

"Yes, sir."

A hundred more, two hundred, and then a
young sergeant with glasses.

While this young man was undergoing his
ordeal (whatever it was, for Tom kept his eyes
riveted on the gangway), there appeared the tall
figure of a lieutenant. Tom thought he was of
the medical corps, but he was not certain. He
seemed to be looking down at Mr. Conne's little
group, with a fierce, piercing stare. He wore
horned spectacles of goodly circumference and as
Tom's eyes followed the thick, left wing of these,
he saw that it embraced an ear which stood out
prominently. Both the ear and the piercing eagle
gaze set him all agog.

Should he speak? The lieutenant was gazing
steadfastly down at Mr. Conne and coming nearer
with every step. Of course, Mr. Conne would

stop him anyway, but To mention that

piercing stare and that ear after the man had
been stopped for the more tangible reason — there
would be no triumph in that.

Tom's hand trembled like a leaf and his voice
was unsteady as he turned to Mr. Conne, and
said.

202 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

'This one coming down — the one that's look*
ing at you — he looks like — and I notice '

"Put your hands down, my man," called Mr.
Conne peremptorily, at the same time leaping
with the agility of a panther up past the descend-
ing throng. "I'll take those."

But Tom Slade had spoken first. He did not
know whether Mr. Conne's sudden dash had been
prompted by his words or not. He saw him lift
the heavy spectacles off the man's ears and with
beating heart watched him as he carne down,
alongside the lieutenant.

"Going to throw them away, eh?" he heard
Mr, Conne say.

Evidently the man, seeing another's glasses ex-
amined, had tried to remove his own before he
reached the place of inspection. Mr. Conne, who
saw everything, had seen this. But Tom had
spoken before Mr. Conne moved and he was
satisfied.

"All right, Tommy," said Mr. Conne in his
easy way. 'You beat me to it."

Tom hardly knew what took place in the next
few moments. He saw Mr. Conne breathe upon
the glasses, was conscious of soldiers slackening
their pace to see and hear what was going on.

"NOW YOU SEE IT,—" 203

and of their being ordered forward. He saw the
two men who were with Mr. Conne standing be-
side the tall lieutenant, who seemed bewildered.
He noticed (it is funny how one notices these
little things amid such great things) the little ring
of red upon the lieutenant's nose where the
glasses had sat.

'There you are, see?" he heard Mr. Conne
say quietly, breathing heavily upon the glasses
and holding them up to the light, for the benefit
of his colleagues. "B L — two dots — X — see?
Plain as day. See there, Tommy!"

He breathed upon them again and held them
quickly up so that Tom could see.

"Yes, sir," Tom stammered, somewhat per-
turbed at such official attention.

'Look in the other one, too, Tommy- -now—-
quick!"

"Oh, yes," said Tom as the strange figures died
away. He felt very proud, and not a little un-
comfortable at being drawn into the centre of
things. And he did not feel slighted as he saw
Mr. Conne and the captive lieutenant, and the
other officials whom he did not know, start away,
thoughtless of anything else in the stress of this
extraordinary affair. He followed because he did

204 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

not know what else to do, and he supposed they
wished him to follow. Outside the wharf he got
"Uncle Sam and wheeled him along at a respectful
distance behind these high officials. So he had
one companion. Several times Mr. Conne looked
back at him and smiled. And once he said in that
funny way of his,

"All right, Tommy?"

'Yes, sir," Tom answered, trudging along. He
had been greatly agitated, but his wonted stolid-
ness was returning now. Probably he felt more
comfortable and at home coming along behind
with Uncle .Sam than he would have felt in the
midst of this group where the vilest treason
walked baffled, but unashamed, in the uniform of
Uncle Sam.

Once Mr. Conne turned to see if Tom wera
following. His cigar was stuck up in the corner
of his mouth as usual and he gave Tom a whim-
sical look.

"You hit the Piff family at both ends, didn't
you, Tommy."

"Y-yes, sir," said Tom.

CHAPTER THIRTY

HE DISAPPEARS

SWIFTLY and silently along the quiet, winding
road sped the dispatch-rider. Away from the
ocean he was hurrying, where the great ships
were coming in, each a fulfilment and a challenge ;
away from scenes of debarkation where Uncle
Sam was pouring his endless wealth of courage
and determination into bleeding, suffering, gal-
lant France.

Past the big hotel he went, past the pleasant
villa, through village and hamlet, and farther and
farther into the East, bound for the little corner
of the big salient whence he had come.

Fie bore with him a packet and some letters.
One was to be left at Neufchatel; others at
Breteuil. There was one in particular for Can-
tigny. His name was mentioned in it, but he did
not know that. He never concerned himself with
the contents of his papers.

205

206 TOM SLADE, DISPATCH-BEARER

So he sped along, thinking how he would get a
new headlight for Uncle Sam and a new mud-
guard. He thought the people back at Cantigny
would wonder what had happened to his machine.
He had no thought of telling them. There was
nothing to tell.

Swiftly and silently along the road he sped, the
dispatch-rider who had come from the blue hills
of Alsace, all the way across poor, devastated
France. The rays of the dying sun fell upon
the handle-bar of Uncle Sam, which the rider
held in the steady, fraternal handshake that they
knew so well. Back from the coast they sped,
those two, along the winding road which lay on
hill and in valley, bathed in the mellow glow of
the first twilight. Swiftly and silently they sped.
Hills rose and fell, the fair panorama of the low-
lands with its quaint old houses here and there
opened before them. And so they journeyed on
into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and
red-running streams of Picardy and Flanders — *
for service as required.

(END)

THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS

By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of Tom Slade," ' Pee- wee Harris, >: 'Westy

Martin," Etc.

, .— .-_--,-- _ -I— . T- *T -T- - — . u _ ~ 1^-- - -__. _. - - _ . ._ _._-_ T '

Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Color.
Every Volume Complete in Itself.

In the character and adventures of Roy Blakeley are typi-
fied the very essence of Boy life. He is a real boy, as real as
Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. He is the moving spirit of
the troop of Scouts of which he is a member, and the aver-
age boy has to go only a little way in the first book before
Roy is the best friend he ever had, and he is willing to part
with his best treasure to get the next book in the series.

ROY BLAKELEY

ROY BLAKELEY'S ADVENTURES IN CAMP

ROY BLAKELEY, PATHFINDER

ROY BLAKELEY'S CAMP ON WHEELS

ROY BLAKELEY'S SILVER FOX PATROL

ROY BLAKELEY'S MOTOR CARAVAN

ROY BLAKELEY, LOST, STRAYED OR

STOLEN
ROY BLAKELEY'S BEE-LINE HIKE

ROY BLAKELEY AT THE HAUNTED CAMP
ROY BLAKELEY'S FUNNY BONE HIKE
ROY BLAKELEY'S TANGLED TRAIL
ROY BLAKELEY ON THE MOHAWK TRAIL

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

THE TOM SLADE BOOKS

By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of "Roy Blakeley," "Pee- wee Harris," "Westy

Martin/ Etc.

Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Colors.
Every Volume Complete in Itself.

"Let your boy grow up with Tom Slade," is a suggestion
which thousands of parents have followed during the past,
with the result that the TOM SLADE BOOKS are the
most popular boys' books published today. They take Tom
Slade through a series of typical boy adventures through
his tenderfoot days as a scout, through his gallant days as
an American doughboy in France, back to his old patrol
and the old camp ground at Black Lake, and so on.

TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT
TOM SLADE AT TEMPLE CAMP
TOM SLADE ON THE RIVER
TOM SLADE WITH THE COLORS
TOM SLADE ON A TRANSPORT

TOM SLADE WITH THE BOYS OVER

THERE
TOM SLADE, MOTORCYCLE DISPATCH

BEARER
TOM SLADE WITH THE FLYING CORPS

TOM SLADE AT BLACK LAKE

TOM SLADE ON MYSTERY TRAIL

TOM SLADE'S DOUBLE DARE

TOM SLADE ON OVERLOOK MOUNTAIN

TOM SLADE PICKS A WINNER

TOM SLADE AT BEAR MOUNTAIN

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS

By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of " Tom Slade," " Roy Blakeley," "Westy
Martin," Etc.

Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Color.
Every Volume Complete in I'seif,

All readers of the Tom Slade and the Roy Blake-
ley books are acquainted with Pee-wee Harris.
These stories record the true facts concerning his
size (what there is of it) and his heroism (such as it
is), his voice, his clothes, his appetite, his friends, his
enemies, his victims. Together with the thrilling nar-
rative of how he foiled, baffled, circumvented and
triumphed over everything and everybody (except
where he failed) and how even when he failed he
succeeded. The whole recorded in a series of screams
and told with neither muffler nor cut-out

PEE-WEE HARRIS

PEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE TRAIL

PEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMP

PEE-WEE HARRIS IN LUCK

PEE-WEE HARRIS ADRIFT

PEE-WEE HARRIS F. O. B. BRIDGEBORO

PEE-WEE HARRIS FIXER

PEE-WEE HARRIS: AS GOOD AS HIS WORD

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

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